The One
by The Feckless Protagonist
Summary: Logically Sherlock has no reason to return. Logically, John and Mary have every reason to be in love. But sometimes the heart takes precedence over the mind. Post Reichenbach, how two men find their way back to each other.
1. Chapter 1

He sat watching her over the small table, not saying much for a long time. He was deciding whether or not to go through with the idea that's been burning through his mind for nearly a month. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulder as she sipped coffee, scanning the morning paper absentmindedly. She had been chatting lightly for some time, to a man lost in his own thoughts. They were at one of their favorite coffee houses in the area; it was hardly populated with a nice little courtyard to enjoy flowery gardens and a cup of tea. He was trying to concentrate on the case they've been working on for the past 3 years, but because of recent breakthroughs, more pressing question captured his attention.

Logically, his idea made perfect sense. I mean, we live in the 21st century, all traditional outlooks on love and relationships were being reevaluated, so why not try to move one step further? They worked well together and got on as if they've been best friends their whole life. No…not best friends, John corrected himself, no matter _what _that spot would always be taken.

But she was healthy, kind, beautiful, intelligent, and given both their circumstances each other was the best option they had. He wasn't even that nervous to ask her, even if she'd say "no" it wouldn't make too much of a difference to him (he was bound to be miserable forever either way). He just didn't want to sound mad, that maybe since everything happened his logic had grown too cynical, skewed or hopeless…but he was pretty sure it hadn't.

Her blue-eyed gaze drifted from the inky text to meet his intense stare. Seeing how kind she's always been, how enormously clever, and how much hurt he could see behind her casual, easy smile, he figured it was worth an ask.

"They found that missing girl," she mused, placing down the paper to pluck up a piece of crumb cake she's been working on, "Only a week to find her too. She was actually down the-"

"Mary...can I talk to you about something?" He asked, cutting her off. He wasn't usually one to interrupt, but to be honest he hardly had been paying attention. He decided now was as good as any a time to bring it up. His unexpected voice made her jump slightly, but her face now showed only intrigue and concern.

"Sure, what's up?"

"Er…I've been thinking, and I know this is going to sound very weird. Very…different. But please just um...hear me out to the end, alright?"

As she nodded her bangs slid into her eyes, which she absentmindedly pushed back. He looked a little more fidgety than normal, hardly meeting her eyes and barely focused on anything she had to say.

"Do you believe in 'the one'?" He asked, using air quotes respectively, "As in, in life we only have one mate that truly was meant to complete us?" He looked uncomfortable, romance being a topic they both gracefully avoided talking about.

Her face automatically dropped, which he knew it would, as it always does when love is mentioned. She thought about this for a second, her lips slowly tightening.

"Yes, John, I do. Love is a strange thing, and for some people maybe under extreme circumstances there could be two soul mates and what not, but…in my case? Definitely only one person will ever be it."

He nodded, expecting that answer. "I do too; I know that there will always be just one person that I was truly meant to be with." A tightness blossomed in his chest, bringing a familiar nagging pain with it. He feebly pushed it away, focusing on the task at hand.

She reached out and touched his hand, knowing his sadness.

"This is why…Mary, I would, um...I think we should get married." There, he said it.

She immediately drew her hand back and stared at him in shock, unable to react initially. She would have thought he was joking if any trace of a smile appeared on his face.

"Look, I mean-"

"John, are you on drugs?"

"What? No, I was just-"

"Drunk, then?"

"Drunk? It's not even noon yet." They were both growing in unexpected agitation.

"Married, John? Really? Have you forgotten how we met in the first place?" No, he had not, which was playing a major factor in this whole idea.

"Of course not, but given the circumstances-"

"What circumstances, John? The fact that I'm a lesbian or that I came to you asking for help finding my fiancé?" She couldn't prevent her voice from rising. She was mixed between finding this comical, hurtful, or angering.

"Look I've been thinking about this a lot since we found out about…recent events," he was careful not to speak directly about the discovery of her fiancé's almost certain death, the news being too raw to directly speak of.

"Oh have you? And you think that I'm just going to abandon her? For what, you? A depressed, gay doctor?"

She went there. He had no idea she'd react like this, getting angry before even hearing him out.

"Mary, please," he had to clear his throat and adjust himself in the chair before continuing. They were both sensitive when it came to this type of thing, so he had to be careful, for the both of them. But her anger was making it rather difficult.

"John, honestly you're my closest friend and I love you dearly, but marriage? Are you thick or something? My fiancé is out there somewhere, and sitting around talking about this nonsense isn't getting us any closer to finding her." With swift frustration she stood up from the table. As she turned to leave she heard him mumble, almost to himself, without trying to stop her from leaving.

"We both have…nothing left."

She turned back to him, anger melting into sympathy for the man, seeing the pain in his face as he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with a hand. She dropped her senseless pride, sat back down and took his free hand in her's.

"John, I…I'm flattered by your request," she slowly began, "but you have to admit it's a little out of the blue. I know you're not a real professional at relationships, but normally most people date before getting hitched, or at least have _some _type of courtship." The smile in her voice lightened the mood for them both. John cleared his throat and leaned over to her, taking her other hand.

"Why do you want to marry me, John?" she asked quietly, more confused than anything else at this point.

He was quite for a long time, looking down at the table cloth to gather his thoughts and composure. He slowly exhaled and raised his eyes to meet hers.

"Because…because when I look into my future, imagine what my life will be like in 5, 10 years, I know..._I know_ that no matter what, I''ll still be a sad, broken man. Don't try to say I won't be, that I'll find someone else, because we both just agreed that that won't happen. That for us, there will only be one person. And I know you still have hope for yours, but…I don't have that. The only one that I will ever love…is so gone, so…" he had to stop himself as his voice tightened. She felt a burning behind her eyes, hearing her own pain pulsing behind his words.

"…Irrevocably absent. And no one I could ever meet can possibly live up to the outlandishly high standards he left. But that leaves me with the problem of the rest of my life. What do I want to do with it?" John sighed and squeezed her hand, "Remember all those dinners? We talked about the families we wanted to have, the lives we wanted to share with someone. Look, I'll admit that we're not in love but…will we ever be in love with anyone, ever again? I don't know about you, but I won't. And it's not a melodramatic pity party, it's just straight facts. My heart belongs to someone who's just plain gone."

Each one of his words were sinking into her skin like water into dry soil. It hurt to hear him talk like this and it hurt to see him so broken. Not only for the care she held for him but the reflection she saw there as well.

"Look, Mary, I know you still have hope for her, and as long as that hope exists I will travel the ends of the earth with you, tracing down every lead. But…the future of your current…situation grows more and more open-ended as we get deeper into it. I'm posing the question to you as a plan B, if you will."

"John, we're going to find her…" she barely believed it herself.

"I know…but, if we don't? Do you really think you'll ever find anyone else to replace her? I'm sorry- that sounded a bit harsh…But honestly, we make a pretty solid team, you and I. We work well together and we get each other, and no one's been able to comfort me like you have. I know that traditionally a loveless marriage is not something sought after…but that just isn't the reality available for either of us."

She hadn't been able to say anything back, just staring at their hands.

"It sounds bleak…but that's what we've been dealt. Bleak. We might as well stick together and make it less bleak for each other, right?"

She let out a weak laugh, and pushed a tear away.

"You and your wonky logic," her laugh was tear-stained but she managed an almost lighthearted composure. He smiled down at the white table top again, and stroked his thumb across her hand.

"We both want kids, right? We could raise a family together, keep each other as happy as we can."

For a moment she imagined a little girl running around in her apartment barefoot, and him smiling by a well-made fire, holding a baby. It was the first time she ever dared thinking about a future with anyone but Trisha, but it didn't hurt nearly as much thinking that he'd be there with a cup of tea for her every afternoon, to hold her hand as she cried.

She looked back up at him, as if for the first time- His soft eyes, honest smile lines, and ruffled hair. The subtle sadness in his careful movements, the way he readily offered his shoulder to cry on but slowly accepted her's. He was a man of loyalty, of honor, with an overwhelming sense of lost love glooming over him like a cartoon raincloud. She had never really been attracted to the opposite sex, but John Watson was a gentleman of the highest standards, and if she was doomed to follow down the same path he had to trod, she might as well have a hand to hold.

"John," she finally said after a teary silence, "I do not plan on giving up on Trish, and I still..I have to hold onto hope. But if after we've turned the world upside-down looking for her and I have to face a truth I will never be able to…then, I suppose, I would be honored to platonically marry you."

The empty happiness that filled John showed plainly on his face, neither of them overjoyed about their prospects, but knowing that through the darkest nights there may be an empathetic shoulder to lean on made the fearful idea of the rest of their lives slightly less daunting.

* * *

**5:32am**

Hi Sherlock, it's Molly. I got this number from your brother (after much pleading). I know you told me I really shouldn't contact you, but something BIG has come up. Please pick up the phone, I need to talk to you.

**5:34am**

Sherlock, please its Molly Hooper, from St. Bart's? I've left you a voice mail to prove with my voice. It's urgent.

**5:40am**

It's about John Watson.

.

**5:41am**

_What is it?_

_SH_

_._

**5:42am**

My God you actually responded, its actually you. I'm sorry, but I haven't heard from you in a really long time. I'm shocked your brother actually gave me the right number.

**5:47am**

Sherlock?

.

**5:50am**

_Well, out with it then._

_SH_

_._

**5:51am**

Dr. Watson is engaged.

.

**6:00am**

_Really Molly? He's getting married? That's your earth shattering news?_

_SH_

_._

**6:01am**

Well I just thought you should know.

**6:01am**

And also you really don't have to sign your initials at the end of each text, I know who it is.

**6:05am**

I'm sorry to bother you, I just thought you needed to know.

**6:15am**

He doesn't love her.

.

**6:20am**

_Obviously._

_SH_

_._

**6:21am**

What? What does that even mean?

**6:29am**

Sherlock?


	2. Developments

"I don't understand what you're asking me, I had nothing to do with my husband's murder," the small teary woman choked out. She sat uncomfortably across a hard cold desk from Mary. Mary was studying her face, watching her movements. If there was one thing that could take Mary's mind off of the horror show that had become her life, it was delving into the horror show that was her job. Anderson stood behind them, leaning against the furthest wall with his arms crossed like a child, obviously annoyed with Mary taking some much needed control of the interrogation.

"Do you see what you're hands are doing right now?" She asked the woman.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You've rubbed your thumb over your hand you spoke, it's something we call a self-comforting gesture; it's an unconscious movement, made to reassure yourself that what you're saying is true. Now during this entire interview, you've done that about four times, each time you've done it you did not break eye contact with me. It's funny though, because when you were talking about actual memories your daughter confirmed, neither of those two happened. You showed no signs of lying. Ah," she continued, leaning in and studying the older woman's face, "see now you're showing contempt and anxiety, which only confirms what I've just gathered. Now please, Mrs. Knowles, it was a simple question, don't deflect it. How close were you with the gardener?"

John stood on the other side of the glass interrogation wall, watching as his fiancé do her thing. It was very interesting work she did- more than slightly less impressive than the deductions he had grown so familiar in his past- but definitely commendable. Unlike his previous partner, Mary's profession wasn't one of a kind, her field of study a growing area in forensic science. Lestrade stood next to him, with his hands in his pockets watching his colleague interview their prime suspect in the current homicide case. They were both waiting for Mary to finish up- Lestrade so that they could arrest the woman and John so that he could go home. As much as John appreciated Mary's work, hanging out in Scotland Yard still rubbed against raw wounds.

Anderson, realizing he was of no use any longer, left the interrogation room with a huff and joined the two men on the other side of the glass.

"She's a real looker there, John," he said , trying to make conversation. Although the two had never really spoken during the course of knowing each other, John had developed his previous flatmate's hostile opinion on the man.

"Yes, she's great," he responded, not looking over to Anderson.

"I mean, a real step up from your last one if you ask me, but that's a bit obvious," he was pushing it.

"Anderson, please," Lestrade was quick to chide, not only for John's sake but for his own affection towards an old friend. John closed his eyes- mostly in disgust. He was already on edge, and a coward making digs at a great man immensely absent to defend himself was making the bile rise in his stomach.

"Oh come on; it's a compliment, really. John's moving up in the world! From an egotistical psychopath to a bombshell lesbian, really I think-"

"You know what Anderson, no one give a rat's ass what you think." Everyone turned in the room to see Mary, taking the words out of the mouths of two thirds of the room's occupants. "And quite frankly it's both pathetic to mock the diseased, and to refer to me as an obviously incorrect sexual orientation. Quite piglike, if you ask me," John couldn't help smile at her remark, glad she came when she did. He wasn't sure how much longer he could restrain the punch to Anderson's face tingling in his hand.

Not done making Anderson feel uncomfortable and in order to prove her point, she strutted straight up to John, and silently wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him into a deep, highly unexpected kiss. With his mind previously engaged with a stream of two alternating themes of "don't cry" and "don't kill him", he barely had time to react. She pulled away with a victorious smirk and a playful wink.

"Ready to go home, darling?" she purred.

"Um. Yes. Quite." He finally sputtered out, filled with the same shock permeating throughout the rest of the room.

"Oh," she said, turning to Lestrade, "While you boys were in here playing, the woman confessed. I had an officer arrest her." With that, she grabbed her coat off the table, nodded to Lestrade, and walked out of the room.

"She-"

"Not a word, Anderson," Lestrade silenced him. He held the door open, "After you, John?"

* * *

"Are you going to tell me what the hell that was?" John asked, catching up with Mary who was almost at the lift.

"What was what?" She asked innocently as she pressed the down button to call the lift.

"Well, I wasn't exactly expecting our first kiss to have an audience."

She laughed as the doors slide open before them, "Were you not planning on inviting anyone to the wedding then?" They both boarded the elevator, her giving John a playful nudge with her elbow.

"Plus that wasn't exactly our first kiss," she said under her breath, pressing the 1st floor button.

"Yeah well, we both agreed that night didn't happen." He said, looking down at the floor. John was trying not to be upset, trying to allow Mary's lighthearted manner to sink in. The doors closed, giving them momentary privacy. She easily picked up on his repressed sadness and placed a hand on his arm.

"Hey, don't let that asshole bother you," she reassured him.

"It's not _that_ asshole that's bothering me," he said, furrowing his brow. She nodded, understanding his meaning.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have had you come, we could have just met at the restaurant," she said, knowing that their current environment must be having a worse effect on him than anticipated.

"No, it's fine," he dismissed her apology, shaking his head, "I have to get over my phobia of this place," he said, exhaling shakily as the doors opened before them.

* * *

He had been sitting in a room where he promised himself he would never sit in again, at a desk he detested and a laptop he hadn't hacked for a very long time. He was prying in a way he was nearly ashamed to be prying, for reasons not totally clear to himself. He already got the information he needed, it was time to leave. There was no reason to still be sitting there. He had been ready to leave until a file on the computer, that damn file, caught his attention. Labeled with a name he'd been practicing avoiding for nearly three years.

J. Watson.

Why would Mycroft have a file about John on his computer? He shouldn't open it- not on any silly moral based principle, but because logically it was pointless. There was nothing in this file that would help him, no information he needed to find. But still, that file had stopped him in his tracks, offering a temptation he wasn't prepared to face. He had been sitting perfectly still, his hands frozen in action, internally debating with himself, when the startling buzzing of his phone in his pocket made him jump. He had pulled it out and saw an unrecognized number. The only name he had in his phone was "Arch Enemy", and he wouldn't have necessarily answered it for him either. With the call going to voicemail, he laid the phone on the desk next to the laptop, folding his hands underneath his chin. He stared down at the computer, at the little text reading the name he was forbidden to think.

The fact that he was spending so much time just debating it proved to himself he might as well see what Mycroft was keeping. His attempt to stifle the burning curiosity with familiar icy logic was cut short by an even shorter buzz on the table. A text message. He glanced down at the mobile.

5:32am

New Message

Rolling his eyes he opened the text. Giving it a read over inspired another onset of eye rolling. He had not expected yet another blast from the past this night, and he wasn't about to let Molly distract him from John.

John. Well, he finally thought that forbidden name; he might as well give up and open the file. He had already accepted that he was not going to leave the office without finding out what Mycroft had hidden away on him anyway. With a sigh of defeat, he navigated the mouse to hover over the icon. He was still before clicking, trying one last feeble attempt to pull himself away from this obvious impending mess. Another intrusive buzz from his phone, alerting him of a new message fueled him to take a gigantic leap across a boarder which, he hadn't known at the time, he would never be returning to.

There was a surprising amount of documents that came up; surveillance videos, pictures, reports, receipts, therapist notes, the list went on. He wasn't sure which one to click first, but he might as well make it fast. He decided to start with the folder labeled "Mary". He spent the next five minutes absorbing all the information he could, his eyes flicking across the scream almost hungrily. He had not expected to be so intrigued by what he found, but the more he read the more his wanted to know. He couldn't stop himself from being so interested; after spending three years with an almost spotless restriction of all things John, this binge opened up a floodgate of unforeseen reactions.

Another buzz tore his attention from the screen, and he decided to take this opportunity as a healthy break from all the information he was absorbing. He was unsettled by the reaction it was causing, and he wanted to allow a distraction to slow his mind down. He unlocked his phone and read the text.

6:40pm

It's about John Watson.

He inwardly groaned, obviously this distraction fell dramatically short of helpful. But any urgent news on John must be dealt with, especially in his current mood. He impatiently typed out a response, and then went back to the computer to absorbing everything offered about John's life. He almost felt guilty for getting this, being allowed access to someone he heartlessly pushed out of his life. But there was no amount of will power that could stop him now.

Another text announced itself, and he quickly picked up his phone and scanned the response with growing annoyance. He wasn't about to respond to such a pointless text, and until she had something worth saying he'd busy himself with something far more interesting. As he was nearing the end of the files, gathering all the information he had no idea what he was going to do with, the door opened to the office, and a very tired Mycroft stood in the door way.

"Sherlock?" He asked, obviously not expecting to find anyone in his office, especially not the brother he hadn't seen in over half a year.

"Morning, Mycroft," Sherlock answered, not looking up from his phone's screen as he typed out a message. When he finished he turned his attention back to the laptop, where he promptly deleted the John file before Mycroft could see what he was doing. It was better to get rid of such an intrusion of privacy, he thought with a twinge of unexpected protectiveness.

Mycroft entered the room, unsure of what exactly to say. He set his jacket and brief case down on the chair across from his desk and stood facing Sherlock. He wanted to ask what he was doing, but such a simple question would never be graced with an answer from his exasperating sibling.

"Do I need to get you your own computer as well, then?" he asked, referring to his providing Sherlock with the mobile he was currently entranced in. As surprised and borderline contemptuous Mycroft was to be seeing his brother so unexpectedly invading his privacy, he couldn't ignore the slight concern he felt as well, as he noted Sherlock's obvious sleepless night.

Sherlock had not said anything as he stood up from behind the desk and shut the lid to the computer.

"I thought you were in Africa." Mycroft stated after some silence as Sherlock slowly moved around the desk, lost in his own thoughts. He finally pulled out of his trance, and looked at his brother.

"That was a waste of time, we both know it," he told him, walking towards the exit.

A buzz from his pocket slowed Sherlock's departure, as he looked down at his phone to read a text containing information he had newly acquired on his own. He couldn't help but frown at the screen anyway, inexplicably unsettled by the text.

6:51am

Dr. Watson is engaged.

He quickly typed out an annoyed response as Mycroft spoke up again.

"Who are you texting?" he asked slightly agitated, causing yet another eye roll from Sherlock.

"You should know," he responded, leaving the room without turning to say goodbye.


	3. Blurry

"Dear Lord, John, is that you?"

John peered blearily up from the pavement, a place where his face just recently became acquainted.

"Nope," he said with a hallow smile and laid his face back where it was, too far gone to care at all what he was doing. Which, as it turns out, was lying face down outside the local pub, too drunk to think, see, or walk straight. Lestrade was walking out of the pub, his arm around his wife, when the sight of a very intoxicated John caught his attention. He rushed over to the doctor, leaving his wife standing surprised.

"Are you hurt?" He asked hurriedly, checking for injury as he tried to pull Jjohn into a sitting position.

"Irrevocably," John slurred, slumping his heavy head against Lestrade's shoulder, who in turn froze in pitying shock.

"My God, man, you're drunk," He hadn't seen John drink so much as a beer since he's known him, and to see such a careful man crumbled was more bizarre than the murder case they'd just closed that afternoon with Mary. He couldn't leave this honorable man in such an embarrassing situation, not a chance. He vaguely remembered where John lived, and at very least he owed it to him to gather him up.

"Love, I'm going to have to bring him home," Lestrade said to his wife, his voice heavy with concern, "would you mind if I met up with you at the flat then?" Lestrade asked, turning his face upward to his wife. She nodded grimly, said her goodbyes, and left.

"Alright John, let's get you up," he encouraged, sliding an arm around his floppy drunk friend.

"No-no, I wanna stay," the doctor mumbled, pushing against Lestrade. John successfully landed himself back on the ground, grumbling about not wanting to move.

"C'mon, I'm going to bring you home," Lestrade said successfully pulling John to his knees.

"Idon't haveone lesstrood." As the doctor's drunken slurs tumbled out of his tired heart he lazily gave up struggling against Lestrade, "I don't haveone. It jumped offaroof."

"I know, buddy. It's alright. Come on, up we go," Lestrade felt powerful sympathy for the poor man, yet he couldn't help but feel intrusive as well; seeing a side of John no one was allowed to, behind some invisible wall he hid behind constantly.

John, now barely standing, let Lestrade hold onto his shoulders to steady him. He tried to focus his eyes but the overwhelming disorientation made the world around him spin nauseatingly.

"I haven't been disdrunk in solong," his voice was moving up and down in pitch as he flopped his head to the side and looked at the displeased Lestrade.

"We've all been there," he told John, "It's ok. I'm just going to get us a cab alright?"

"You knowhat isslike? To feel lika damn broken lamp alldatime?" John asked, wobbling forward.

Lestrade didn't respond, instead he dragged the doctor to the side of the road. He leaned John against a telephone pole where he was able to steady himself.

"Iss dark," John whispered to the ground, his head now slumped down against his chest, "quite dark."

Lestrade was able to wave a taxi down, and as it pulled up John nearly fell over again, Lestrade jumping to catch him. "Pull yourself together, man," he chidded softly.

The cabbie rolled down the window, "Is he drunk? I don't want anybody gettin' sick in my car, now." He eyed the very wobbly John apprehensively.

"Me," John pointed to himself as he muttered to Lestrade, who turned and looked at him confused.

"You what?"

"Watchout," John advised, and with that he leaned gracelessly forward and projected vomit over the curb. The doctor barely missed Lestrade's feet, who deftly caught him before he could fall over. It wasn't like there was much food in John's stomach, so the barfing ended relatively quickly. The detective inspector then turned to look at the cabbie who held a disgusted grimace.

"Well, you don't need to worry about that anymore," Lestrade told him.

After some halfhearted pleading with the driver they were allowed entrance into the picky cab, and Lestrade struggled to get John situated. With some incomprehensible grumbling John slummed his head against his friend's shoulder. Lestrade was trying to remember where the poor drunk man lived, trying to recall the address.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked, starting the car.

"Um, Baker Street, I think. John, hey- wake up. What's the address? It's two-something Baker Street, yeah?" He asked, stirring him off his shoulder. John frowned not wanting to be heckled into thinking anymore.

"Bakerstreet?" the drunk doctor mused, "Oh yes, itwas 221b," he said shutting his eyes, forgetting in his drunken delirium that he hadn't lived there in nearly three years.

Lestrade reiterated the address to the cabbie, then sat back to sighed and run a hand through his hair. This was not exactly how he planned on ending the evening. The drive continued in silence for a bit, John finally stopped whining about being moved. Lestrade didn't know what to say, never having been very close to John. After a couple turns, John let out an overly loud sigh.

"Today was notgood," the alcohol seeped his voice rough. Lestrade looked over at him.

"We caught a killer, that's something, isn't it?" he offered. John tried to think about this, but still feeling the heavy effects of intoxication, gave up quickly. As silence took over once more and the hustle simmered around John, that leaky pain slithered back into his chest- the same he'd been trying to smoother with drinks a few hours earlier. He'd give anything, _anything_, to not have to feel it anymore. It was annoying, crippling at times, and did nothing but break him into smaller and smaller pieces. He wanted another drink.

"What am I going to do?" he asked, leaning his head against the cold window. It was refreshing against his flushed cheeks. Lestrade patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"It will get better," he offered.

"Better?" John whispered, sucking on the word as if trying to understand its meaning. "No. Not better. Better's gone. Better's dead." He felt the tiresomely familiar sting of weak tears pressing against his eyes. His resistance against the sadness was drowned in scotch, and the whispering pressure leaked carefully all on its own.

"Yeah, well-"

"He was my best friend," John interrupted a little too loudly. Lestrade didn't mind being cut off, it was a bittersweet heart-warmer to witness John like this.

"A pain in the ass," Lestrade mused, with a smile. John nodded slowly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"I didn't know how much I needed him," he said quietly. He was slurring less, but wasn't nearly sober yet. "And now I do. I know and I need him." Lestrade stayed quiet, unsure what to say.

"I'm not gay," John dropped his voice as if he was telling a secret. "I'm notgay, buuut I loveim." He began shutting his eyes, waves of sleepiness washing over his swerving consciousness.

"Hey no! Stay awake mate, we're almost here," Lestrade nudged the other man back into consciousness.

"Where?"

"Home." Lestrade answered, as the cab turned onto Baker Street.

"Idon't haveone," John's response was barely audible. Opening his eyes once more he slowly realized, with black apprehension, where in fact they were. His heart, already feeling like it had been plummeting through dark empty water, suddenly hit the ocean floor with a morose thud.

The driver pulled up in front of that sacred, untouchable door, and John felt the hallowing of his stomach as he looked out the window. He swallowed hard.

"Hell," he whispered, knowing full well given the state he was in, there was no way he'd be able to stop himself from walking into that flat and stumble down a dark, cruel, agonizing memory lane.

* * *

The car pulling up in front of the building dragged Sherlock out of his thoughts, and he put down the book he'd been scanning through. Mrs. Hudson had gotten rid of most of his things, but had not had the heart to completely clear it all out (especially since John went into a fit when she last tried). Though a week later John himself moved out, neither of them were able to pack up the rest of the his things. Their things. It would be like permanently erasing the detective, closing the final chapter that felt too wrong to officially end. Instead Mrs. Hudson and John held some strange, unspoken agreement to keep half of his things laid out, in a museum like fashion.

This made things a little easier for Sherlock now, as he scurried around looking for a piece of important information that he knew he'd left behind. Being back home brought a parade of heightened emotions he chose to ignore, focusing on finding a book that contained the key to finding a very important hideout. He was actually proud of himself being able to stay so focused; he was nearly able to claim an in and out job, no getting distracted by a life he couldn't afford to miss. He had a job, a mission, and any side tracking (no matter how desperately desired) would be counterproductive. He had almost gathered what he needed when he heard a car door slam, drawing him towards the window.

Sherlock's heart froze.

There he was.

A wave of bewildering emotions ranging from horror to an undeniable relief attacked him quite off guard. Seeing John after all this time was like taking a very long breath he hadn't known he was holding. He had been so careful not to think John's name for so long, not to picture his face, and especially not to dwell on the sense of a lost future he felt ever since he said that final goodbye. And there he was, the actual John Watson- very alive, very there, and very drunk.

Sherlock glared down into the street and watched as Lestrade (out of nowhere) climbed out of the cab and helped John up from his tumble out of the taxi. The inexplicable bout of subtle jealous towards Lestrade melted almost immediately as Sherlock gathered that he'd been out on a date with his wife (who was obviously still unfaithful) and not out on the town drinking with John. A closer look at John dropped lead into his stomach. Immediately a line from Mycroft's file flashed across his mind:

"Dr. Watson seems to be slowly, almost mechanically, distancing himself from reality."

Sherlock shook his head and pushed that thought away, yet was unable to take his eyes off John as Lestrade attempted to pull him up off the ground. John was saying something, obviously very upset, but clearly sobering up by the second. He gathered himself to stand and keep a solemn expression focused on the door. This gave Sherlock the opportunity to see for the first time every sleepless night, broken cry, and shuttering silence which carved the man that stood below him. He saw with his own eyes what it looked like to take a home away from a man, and leave him with nothing. The John he held in his memory, smiling amazed at his intellect or playfully insulting him, was violently replaced with this too thin, shaking, hallow-eyed figure. This John-shaped man had tears in his jacket, gravel in his hair and notable stains on his once perfect jumper. His shirt read unchanged in days, and his shoulders said sleeping on a crappy mattress, possibly a couch.

After a few words exchanged between Lestrade and John, Lestrade patted him on the back, and climbed into the taxi. Sherlock couldn't help but miss Lestrade as well, and felt a twinge of worry somewhere repressed in his chest for the next time he'd be able to see his friend again. But at least John was still there, frozen like a statue before the door. Sherlock had no idea what he was doing there, but judging on the state of intoxication, Lestrade's obvious recent presences in John's evening, the hour at night, and the unprepared look in John's face, it was not a planned visit. The fact that John clearly had accidentally rattled off their old address and now stood so obviously horrified at his mistake dug a piercing little cavity into Sherlock's iced heart.

For a brief moment Sherlock imagined how wild John would look if he were to simply walk out that front door and back into his life. The look on his face would almost be worth the risk it would mean. Almost. Shaking that thought away as well, his momentary smile dropped quickly as he watched with growing horror as John made his way up to the entrance. The doctor paused and put his hand against the door, his eyes shut and head down. Sherlock knew he should be hurrying to get out of there before John saw him (obviously) or at least to hide. But he couldn't pull himself away. Instead he raised his own hand up to the window and froze in a mirroring position, feeling an unexplainable connection. He felt deep down as if for the first time he had made a real connection with John. It was an unsettling thing, and not something he felt comfortable with welcoming. He was getting dangerously close to failing his mission.

John broke the union and pushed the door forward, entering the house.

"Hell," Sherlock whispered, and rushed into action.


	4. Drunk

After ruling out fitting into the pantry, under the desk or sofa, Sherlock inwardly cursed his height for the first time in a while (John would have easily fit into those places). The only way out of the flat was the way in, and he could already hear John hobbling up the stairs. He decided the only place that could effectively conceal his entire body was under his own bed and soundlessly hurried into his room to crawl under it. Rolling around to press his back against the dusty floorboards, he quickly checked to make sure no limbs were visible. Though he was confidant he had nothing to worry about; it was dark and John was drunk.

In the dead silence of the apartment, he could hear the doctor stumble up to the door mumbling to himself. By the sound of his gait Sherlock could make out that he had substantially sobered up. If there was anything the detective knew better than his own flat (the layout, which floorboards creaked, how long it took to get from place to the next), it was John. He would be able to visualize in his mind's eye all John's movement and where he was just by listening. Lucky for him the alcohol allowed for sloppier, louder movements and a more distinguishable voice. Sherlock closed his eyes and strained his ears in order to pick up every detail, unaware just how desperately he wanted to hear what was going on.

He heard a slow, heavy exhale.

"Shit," and for the first time in 3 years they were both back in 221b together again.

* * *

John was only slightly intoxicated now, the sight of his old flat had slowly deflated any droopiness out of his mind. It was only difficult to walk straight, but his thoughts, rapid and painful, were taking off at record speed. He was cursing himself as he made his floppy way up the stairs for giving the wrong address to Lestrade. Of course not everyday had been this bad, but not everyday he had to go into Scotland Yard, or see Anderson. It had been a rough one and he had headed down to get a drink to clear his head. He ended up just getting more and more upset and slowly lost track of the drinks and time. He had let himself feel the stifled grief he'd be ignoring for the past few weeks, ever since he asked Mary to be his wife. It was painful to unnecessarily revisit wounds he'd been trying to leave alone to heal and the last place he ever wanted to wind up in a state of half-drunken grief was 221b Baker Street.

Fear of what he'd find up there- or more specifically who he wouldn't find- began to take its toll and his heart was pattering around in little hallow tremors as he reached the top of the stairs. Realizing this was a horrible idea and knowing there was no turning back, he held his breath, closed his eye, and reached for the handle. With a loud exhale he let the door slowly swing open. Before daring to enter he scanned the room, taking in all he could.

A dusty sort of darkness crawled over everything, only being disrupted by muted light spilling in off the street through the windows. This perverted light accented the vast emptiness and the lack of Sherlock's once ever-present mess. John stood there in the doorway scanning the room filled with a sinking nostalgia.

"Shit," his husky, scotch-laden voice cut through the silence.

The skull caught his attention first, perched next to a couple of books on the mantle as if Sherlock had only just put it down. Everything was still all there- the carpet, chairs, desk, curtains, even that damn bull's head hanging on the wall. He was surprised to see how much Mrs. Hudson hadn't moved even after he left without looking back. Most of the bookshelves and desk had been cleared off, but there was still enough left to make the place look moderately inhabited. The now faded yellow spray paint smiled it's haunting grin through the fine coat of dust that clung to the wall opposite the fireplace, surrounded by boredom-birthed bullet holes.

"What are you smiling at?" John grumbled as he gathered the courage to cross into the room.

It was cool in the dark and morbidly still. Had John not been under the effects of a long night drinking, he would have noticed the softly shifted patterns in the dust on the bookshelf furthest from the door, where Sherlock had just been rummaging for one of his books. But John was focused on something else, namely trying not to turn around and run from the horrible motionlessness.

He stiffly crossed the room to the desk and gingerly placed two fingers on it, as if to verify where exactly he was. The doctor shut his eyes and lowered his head, remaining perfectly still as he tried to slow his racing heart. After a moment he exhaled in a quiet defeat and shuffled over the fireplace.

"Sherlock," he began with a heavy sigh, placing folded arms on the mantle, "What am I doing?" his voice was soft but low enough for it to travel into other rooms.

"I hate this. All this…" he gestured loosely with a hand around the room, "…this emptiness. I absolutely hate it," John paused to swallow hard, then continued. "It reminds me of how awake I was, how awake you made me. Now every damn day I have to wake up asleep."

The doctor turned his body sharply and stood to rant into the horribly empty room.

"My life sucks, Sherlock, and that's your damn fault. You gave me what I had needed my whole life, and then stripped it away. And now I can barely stomach who I see in the mirror. I just see me without you. I mean…I mean, why the fuck am I still so broken?" His voice was rising in agitation, at himself and at the absence of his friend. He began to pace slowly and talk faster. "I'm just a candle that you put out, Sherlock. And I guess that goes to show just how pathetic I really am. But you shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't have lit the goddamn flame if you were just gunna snuff it out, and you shouldn't have fucking died!" He slammed a frustrated fist against the mantle he had recently made his way back to.

The silence that followed the bang seemed to be draining the energy out of John. It was as if it were pulling down the barriers, and for the first time since he could remember, he gave up on trying to put them back up. The title wave of repressed grief swarmed over him like like a lion on its prey. It tore deep into the pits of his stomach, tears flowing like blood from a wound. He was a stern man, even more so these days, and collapsing just wasn't something within his comfort zone, no matter how necessary for his mental health.

After he exhausted himself John was able to pull himself together. He angrily shoved away the tears and straightened up, deciding that he was in too wretched of a mood to be almost completely sober. With a conditioned familiarity he walked into the kitchen, opened one of the bottom cabinets and found what he'd been looking for. Thankful that Mrs. Hudson hadn't touched the booze shelf. He grabbed a half full bottle of what ever was in there and unscrewed the top as he stood back up. He stared at the bottle for a moment as if disappointed it had to come to this. Brushing away the concern he took a long swig then exhaled violently in reaction. The burn was scalding but more than welcomed.

Continuing his slow walk, he wandered his way out of the kitchen blankly, looking around as if a tourist in a museum. After a few more gulps he had wandered down that short hall and found himself in Sherlock's room. He was standing in the middle of it, staring at the blue robe which hung from the bed frame, as if Sherlock had just taken it off the day before. He took another couple swigs from the bottle, then turned to sit down on the edge of the bed.

"You were such an ass, Sherlock, really." He said leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees, folding his hands together over the bottle. "Half the time I couldn't stand being in the same room as you." He gave a humorless laugh, "whatI wouldn't give for that now. But no, you had to go fuck everythingup." He was beginning to slightly slur again, his consciousness stumbling back down into the sanctuary of intoxication.

"You were sooblivious to somany things. But all those things were just thethings that never really mattered. You mattered. There wassomething…flawless about you. Absolutely fuckingflawless." He was speaking down into his drink now, watching the liquid swirl as he moved it around in his hand.

John twisted quickly and looked behind him at the bed he was sitting on, scanning his tired eyes over the pillows and still rumpled sheets. "You usedto slept there," he said as-matter-of-factly, pointing a swinging hand at the vacant spot, "everynight," he nodded to himself. "Well, actually not every night I suppose. Godknows how much you actually sleeped." Rolling his eyes, he gracelessly flopped back, so that the top half of his body was lying on top of the coverlet, and his feet were still touching the ground. A wave of nausea pushed against his thoughts in reaction to his quick movements, but he pushed it away with practiced skill. John started bleary-eyed up at the ceiling, arms spread out on either side of him.

"God I miss you," he whispered, letting the hand holding the bottle swing over the edge of the bed.

"Every day I'm alive is just another reminder that you're not."

Despite his attempts with the alcohol, that swelling tightness, that knotted pit, was growing again at the center of his chest.

"I'm so sick of it. Forever is a long time to be gone, my friend. Isalong fuckin' time." The doctor closed his eyes causing a few solitary tears to slide down the side of his head into his hair. He fell silent then, just dwelling in the heartache that accompanied lying in Sherlock's empty bed.

He had laid like that for a long time. He wasn't sure how long; it could have been a couple minutes, or a couple hours for how much he was concerned. At some point the bottle dropped out of his hand and made a soft thud on the floor. Ignoring it, he concentrated on the consuming darkness as it soaked into his skin. As he laid there he allowed himself to imagine Sherlock lying next to him on the bed, falling asleep with him. It hurt his heart thinking about how deeply, truly, he yearned for that. He cracked his tired eyes back open one last time, deep in thought.

"I love you, Sherlock," he said so quietly he wasn't even sure he had spoken it out loud.

"I never knew it, don't know how, and I found out too late. But for what it's worth, if you can hear me wherever you are, I learned since you died that I've always loved you."

With that timidly spoken confession still resting on his lips, he slid his eyes shut and fell into a cloudy, restless sleep.

* * *

Sherlock laid in total awestruck silence, absorbing and replaying every single brokenhearted word John had rambled off since he had stumbled into the flat. As John had been talking more and more, Sherlock allowed himself, for the first time since he pushed John out of his life, to shed tears. Of guilt, shame, loneliness, and unbeknownst to him, of love.


	5. Feelings (of an Almost Human Nature)

Author's Note: Hey all, sorry it took so long for an update! I didn't forget about it, I promise! I had it written out and ready for posting, but being homeless kinda puts a damper on finding time/internet connection and all. But anyway, hope you enjoy! :D

Oh and if the chapter's title sounds familiar, its part of a line from Pink Floyd's "The Trial" off The Wall. I thought the themes of both songs kinda matched (a little?).

Also I deeply apologize for any/all mistakes; I wanted to post it as soon as possible so I didn't spend my usual amount of time editing

* * *

A Second missed call from Mary buzzing intrusively through the hazy morning pulled John out of his hangover slumber. He groggily rolled off of his stomach with a groan, his back whining with him. Momentarily he had no idea where he was, not expected to be waking up in an unfamiliar room. Wait no… this wasn't so unfamiliar…yes, it was Sherlock's room. At some point during the night he must have crawled up to the pillows, and was now lying under rumpled sheets, surrounded by bed on all sides.

_"My God," _he thought, memories of the wretched night before attacking his consciousness. Rubbing his face as if he were trying to rub the night away, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and squinted down at the screen with half-closed eyes.

**8:30am**

**Five New Messages**

**Seven Missed Calls**

**Three Voicemails**

With a heavy exhale he began dialing her number to call her, laying down on his back. A muted dial tone was cut off by the startling sound of Mary's physical, unexpected voice calling his name from the living room, making him jump.

"I'm in here," he called back and hung up the phone, his voice heavier than usual from having just woken up. He heard her anxious footsteps as he pulled himself over to the side of the bed and swung his feet down to the floor.

She burst through the door with an "Oh thank God!" and was at his side at once.

"Are you ok? Are you hurt?" she asked hurriedly, checking him over for any injuries. He yawned and shook his head.

"No. Mary, no, I'm alright. Honest." John said, shooing her protective panic away. She dropped her hands in her lap with a heavy sigh filled with a mixture of both anger and relief.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You scared the shit out of me when you didn't come home last night. I fell asleep waiting up for you. It was only Lestrade's phone call that woke me up," she scolded as he stood up and stretched. He tried to only concentrate on her and not on anything else around him. Last night he had liquid courage to keep him brave enough to face this place, but this morning all he had was a headache and building nausea.

"Lestrade called?" he asked, turning around to look at Mary, who was still sitting on the bed.

"He wanted me to come in, and then asked how you were doing. I told him you didn't come home last night. Then he let me know he dropped you off at 'home'. I came as fast as I could…what happened?" She looked at him concerned, and then let her eyes wander to take in the rest of the room. It didn't look anything like his room back at their own flat.

His sigh mixed with a cringe, embarrassed at the bits and pieces he could remember from the previous night. He vaguely remembered Lestrade pealing him off the sidewalk and into a cab.

"I don't know," he admitted, running a hand through his hair, "I must have drank too much. I think gave him the wrong address."

She nodded, still looking around the room. Her eyes landed on the bottle of Sotch lying abandoned, nearly empty on the floor. She picked it up and looked incredulously at him.

"How much did you drink, exactly?"

"Plenty by the feel of it; I've got a pounding headache. Can we leave?" he asked quickly, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible.

"Sure," she agreed, jumping to her feet. She then paused and asked, "You want to, um, bring anything back with you? It looks like you left some things here. I like the framed periodic table, very modish." She nodded with a smile to the hanging behind the door.

His lips tightened. "This, er, wasn't my room." John kept his eyes focused on the floor. As Mary's jaw dropped with her heart.

"Oh! John, I'm so sorry, I hadn't realized-"

"No, it's fine. I don't really remember how I ended up here...It's fine." It was hard to hide the embarrassment he felt, for being caught spending a drunk night in his dead friend's bed.

"Let's get out of here?" she asked sympathetically, picking up her purse she had thrown down in a rush.

"Please," he responded, and followed her out of the room. On their beeline for the door he tried not to look around, his heart beginning to feel like a can being crumpled, but she stopped in the middle of the main room and turned to look at him.

"Do you want to…say goodbye? Or anything? Maybe grab a few things?"

"No. No, thanks, but I really just want to get the hell out of here," he said, only looking at her. It was too early in the morning to face the pain this place seethed. She nodded and patted him on the arm.

"Alright," she turned to lead the way out, "but I have to warn you, we're late for an interrogation." John followed her.

"Lovely. Can we stop by home real quick?" he asked, gesturing at his current state of bedraggled mess when she turned back round to look at him.

"Of course," Mary responded with a smile. Without turning back, he closed his eyes and followed her.

* * *

He sat cadaver-still in the lab at St. Bart's, staring unseeingly at the microscope in front of him. His mind rushed around as if caught in a blizzard. It was almost moving too fast for him to catch up with, skyrocketing into blackness too high above for even he to comprehend.

_What exactly did he just witness?_

It was nearly five in the morning, but the storm of effects just seeing John after so much crippling time pushed him far away from being okay. He had to go somewhere he trusted, somewhere clean, blank, logical. Where he can sift through the illogical mess that had so violently fallen into his lap. He knew for a fact no one would be in the lab for the next three hours, so he took this time to cautiously peer down into the swelling pit of sentiment brewing dangerously over his psyche.

Digesting and absorbing human emotion had never come first hand to him. He felt things, sure, but they were generally simple and explainable- like excitement, frustration, anger and satisfaction. He even had relative ease dealing with complex confusion or maddening adrenaline. They were what he was used to.

But this...What he was beginning to feel now was quite obtuse in nature, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't wrap his stoic logic around it. He had never sought after human connection in such a way he seemed to be feeling now, for it was largely something he'd scorned and rejected his entire life. He had always been alone, it's what had protected him as he had told John last they shared a room. Alone was a sanctuary that secured him. Never before had he felt loneliness a curse. Something that, somewhere deep in his heart, he desperately wanted to eradicate.

_In his heart. _

How obscure, for him to suddenly pay mind to its desires. He never cared what it wanted before, mainly because it never _wanted_ before. There was never anyone or anything it had called out for, always being quite content with satisfying his obstinate brain. So why now, when it was most important to stay concentrated on the case, would his challenged heart alter its path of silence?

Moreover, he puzzled over what it was even making such a fuss about.

This would all be a lot easier had he had a lifetime of practice with these sorts of things, if he had known the language of the heart. But being completely novice at it, he found studying his heart's reactions to be uncomfortably tangled, far more disconcerting than any of his cases.

So what was this? This swelling, sweating, gnawing sensation he felt permeating through his veins like an evasive poison in his blood. Going logically, this could simply be a chemical reaction in his brain after not seeing his only friend for a long time. Just a normal— completely asexual— reaction. Probably won't last very long then, and it was obviously nothing to worry about. But there was no way to prove what he was feeling was just an average reaction to this type of situation? (This was hardly a researchable phenomenon to gather data about). Alright, so if this is not just a temporary cause-effect response, what exactly was this possibly-permanent activity?

Love?

He felt mildly ridiculous even thinking it; he wasn't programmed to feel love. Furthermore, he hardly knew what it even entails, so how could he possibly deduce that was the culprit inflicting him. He loved his mother once upon a time, but growing up severs so many childish attachments. And at the moment he didn't long for John to make him food or read him stories. He cared for people, he supposed, but he had always known his affections for John were growing. That wasn't dangerous or annoying. And he knew what strong love love felt like in his life today in his marriage. He loved the work. He loved to impress, to deduce, to solve. Up until a few hours before he was unaware there were facets of his emotions he hadn't experienced. And if this were love, then it went into territory he was widely unfamiliar with. The only feature of love he wasn't acquainted with went beyond platonic- into the murky, mind-numbingly boring subject of romance. And the closest he'd gotten to that was John's string of girlfriends and on the telly. But that's not what this was, not by a long shot. He wasn't feeling the need to write poetry or buy flowers or any other absurd thing love motivated people to do. So that's not what it was, it couldn't be.

But he did miss him.

Thinking that made his newly-acknowledged heart sink.

Yes, he missed John, and as he sat in that cold room he couldn't help but think how much warmer it would be just to have John there to talk to.

So there, that must have been it. He simply had grown massively tired of being so alone. Three years without anyone at all was a long time, indeed….

No, that can't be it though. He had gone his whole life without anyone, why should he care that he had no-one once more? It had hardly mattered before. But now it did, It mattered far too much. _What changed? _The frustration of not knowing boiled him into standing up and pacing. Now the thought of returning to another empty room, of eating another dinner alone, of having no one to listen to his deductions, left him utterly cold inside. It was not the familiar coldness he had welcomed so often, but a strange frost, like the burn of ice.

What was even more frustrating was that he didn't just not want to be alone anymore; he wanted to be with John. No one else would do. Molly was boring, Mycroft was dreadful, Lestrade was mildly tolerable, and he wasn't about to go search the world full of ignorant people for good company. He had already found good company and he had given it up.

It was beginning to make sense now. He had gone his whole life without human connection, and once he had it and lost it, he found that he missed it dreadfully and he wanted it back. You can't miss something you've never had, so he had never known how much he wanted it. Well that wasn't quite fair, was it? It's not like he could do anything about it at the moment anyway, and he grew anger at his stupid little heart for not understanding the situation. What was the point of all this? Of dealing with emotions that could never be realized? He had a mission, one that stood in the way of returning home.

_"Well, that's not exactly true…"_ An annoying voice nagged at the back of his mind.

Yes, technically he had already hunted down and dispatched the three immediate threats to his friends Moriarty had set out, and thus cleared up his path home. But the door that it had opened up, the grand task that spread out before him offered a rare, wildly important path to explore. However with this new life it was safer not to have anyone close anymore- for their sakes and his own. If you wanted to dismantle an entirely complex spider web string by string, it was easier to be able to move in silence, no strings of your own attached. It should have been a dream life for him- a massive heap of questions and puzzles, leads and cases to follow down, never boring. This was the ultimate life, not having to deal with people, only with the work, and that was what mattered.

Yet he had noticed, as time dragged him further and further from his past life, he found himself increasingly discontent, uncomfortably burdened with bouts of sadness, anxiety, and lonesomeness that he gotten better and better at burying away. The life of the ordinary was not a place for him, the great Sherlock Holmes. He didn't feel he belonged in the tangles of everyday life, and had decided to detach himself from it all together. To spend his life unraveling the morbid web of the spider who tried to ruin him. It had always been satisfying, but it was growing less and less so by the day and the repressed emotions of three years were beginning to push back.

_"Forever is a long time to be gone, my friend."_

John's broken, drunk voice attacked his train of thought, causing an angry rush of frustration ending in a tray of beakers being crashed on the ground. What were the odds that the _one_ night he dared venture back to the flat to find some old notes crucial for his case, was the one night John stumbled back too? It was wildly maddening that he had to come and mess everything up.

And what had he meant then, when he said he was in love with him? It was entirely perplexing. Something he wanted to hound with questions and observations, more enticing of a query then the massive case he was working on right now. Of course, there's the obvious possibility that John could have meant a platonic love. Then there's the factor of his highly intoxicated state which could have easily altered his affections towards him. Moreover there was a factor he didn't want to consider, that John could just have a twisted memory of him, glorifying the past to make Sherlock better than he truly was. There was no way to varying the certainty of these theories without direct observation. But the more he thought on them, the more they seemed less like theories and more like excuses. He knew what he heard, the pain and longing in John's voice. That couldn't have just been a hankering for an old friend. There was something more there, something much more serious. And Sherlock couldn't tell, in the confusion of his newly acquired emotions, whether or not he wished the confession of love was true.


	6. I Won't Be Alone

Trisha McFarland was a 5'6" bartender from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She visited England to study abroad when she was 21 and never left. Most of her family back home would say it was because of the beautiful country and its culture, but that's because they all were in denial of her homosexuality. She had fallen in love at university with a blonde behavioral science student named Mary. They were together for nearly seven years, engaged for one and a half, before Trisha unexpectedly went missing. Never returned home from the market. Mary spent a good six months working with the police in her area to investigate the missing person case, but with no avail. The police slowly gave up on the investigation, with newer, more pressing files emerging. But she hadn't given up, becoming all but obsessed with the case. She had barely slept, rarely ate, and kept up with the news and media very slightly, with an ear only for news of Trisha. Her life became the case, but as much as her friends at the station wanted to help, their resources were exhausted. Desperate to find the woman she loved, she then turned to someone she'd read about in the papers back when she still had Trisha; a private detective of some sorts who was legended to be the best of the best. He was, however, rumored to be a bit choosy with his work selection, which meant she should hurry to him, present her case before someone more interesting had the chance to. Without bothering to call ahead, she jumped on the first train to London.

She remembered ringing the flat's bell at almost precisely the same time as a man opened the door. He started when he saw her, apparently oblivious to the ringing she had just made. He tried to be pleasant but she could tell he was deeply distressed about something, and she felt mildly guilty for barging in on him unannounced. But she had something important to get to. Never doing anything in halves and with clear signs of desperation, she launched into a full story of her tragedy. He stood in the doorway very still and quiet as she poured her heart out, begging for his help with finding Trisha. He looked more and more uncomfortable, but when he tried to interject she over powered him, asking for him to at least hear her out. He was clearly frazzled but, like a gentlemen, let her finish her case. When she had finally gotten out the entire rehearsed speech, she looked at him through her fresh tears, waiting for a response. He looked painfully awkward.

"Er, that's an awful story, and I'm so sorry but…but I'm afraid…Sherlock Holmes, has um.. he's dead." He had had much trouble getting the sentence out. And for the first time in almost a year, she felt sorrier for someone else over herself. He clearly was in deep mourning, and she could read in his face just how significant of a loss he had suffered.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry. Please, let me buy you a coffee?" she had asked, sparking one of the deepest friendships of her life.

* * *

They were back at Scotland Yard (much to John's dismay), in a similar interrogation room, only this one had a much smaller window to look through, but better lighting on either side of the glass. A handcuffed suspect was sitting behind the table. John wouldn't normally be there for the investigations, but this particular suspect was involved in Trisha's case.

The man was picked up for possessing large amounts of drugs in his car, but Lestrade had called Mary because he had recognized the man's tattoos. He had the exact same ink in the same places as Trisha. All ten of them.

As Mary entered the room, he straightened up in his seat and turned a hardened face to her.

"I already talked to the police," he growled looking away at the wall. Mary inwardly noted the American accent.

"Oh, I'm not a cop, I'm doing my own investigation. I just wanted to have a quick chat with you. About your ink." She said, gesturing to the blue birds on his wrist as she sat across from him. He reflexively covered them with his hands.

"My buddy Lestrade tells me you have quite a lot of them. You want to tell me what they all mean?" she asked.

"They don't mean nothing," he said, clenching his jaw. She watched his throat tense up and nodded.

"So why are you angry about them?" She asked thoughtfully.

"What?"

"You're obviously pissed about the tattoo. Most people either show pride or regret when talking about their ink. You're showing anger. I'm wondering why," She explained.

"My ink has nothing to do with the goods in my car," he mumbled, staring down at the table.

In response, she opened up the folder in her hand and laid ten full size pictures in front of him, each one a picture of his different tattoos. He glanced down at them, and then away in disgust.

"They're pretty girly for a man your size, don't you think? I actually like the feather on your side though. You want to know why? I picked it out." At this, his eyebrows pulled up and together for a millisecond, before his face hardened back up.

"Well there's some genuine surprise. You wanna tell me why you're covered in matching tattoos with a missing woman?" She was pushing him, and he was clearly growing in agitation.

"I didn't know they matched anyone." He snapped at her.

"You just happened to get ten identical tattoos?"

"I didn't want them. The boss…he made me get them. I didn't ask why; you don't ask why when he tells you to do something." It was easy to read the anxiety in his face, as he fidgeted in his seat. His hard criminal facade was falling.

"And your boss, does he have a name?" She pressed, and he rolled his eyes.

"I ain't talkin' 'bout him. Book me for the drugs, fine. But he stays out of this." He was clearly terrified of this man.

Unsure how to handle gang members, she nodded curtly and left the room to consult with Lestrade.

"What should we do?" she asked, clearly excited to have gotten a fresh piece of evidence.

"For now, we hold him. We'll do a background check, search his flat, find out everything we can on him. From what we've gathered, he's pretty low on the food chain."

She shook her head, "No, he can't be. He's trusted with large sums of drugs and the leader knows him enough to ink him up? That's really weird. And he's too terrified of him to not know him personally. I say we press him for more." she said with determination.

"You're not gunna get anything- he's a gang member, they're overly loyal. And besides he's more afraid of what they'll do to him for talking than he is of us."

"If he knows something about Trish-"

"We'll find out what he knows after we have more info on him." His voice was final, causing an indignant roll of the eyes from Mary.

She grunted in protest and tried to argue but Lestrade stopped her.

"Look we've been working on this gang for years, and this is the first big break we've had on them in months. We're gunna have to be careful about it."

Instead of responding she growled and stormed out of the room, sensing the finality of the matter. John gave an awkward nod to Lestrade and walked to the door.

"Hey, uh, about the other night," Lestrade tensely began.

"Don't." John stopped him with a sigh, looking down at the floor. "I'm really sorry you had to see that. I don't, um…usually…" he trailed off, unsure how to explain behavior he could barely remember.

"Look it's fine, I'm not judging. You seemed pretty upset though. Are you alright, then?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

John looked up and tried to smile, "Fine. Thanks." they both nodded then stood in uncomfortable silence.

"Well I'd better-" John began quickly.

"Right, yeah." Lestrade agreed, understanding John's need to run after Mary.

John gave a small wave and then was out the door.

* * *

"Are you going to explain to me what taking out your old drug suppliers has to do with your imaginary quest for freedom?" Mycroft asked his brother, who had once again decided to pay an unexpected visit late into the night. This time Sherlock's business seemed to be with him, however, not trifling around his laptop.

Sherlock remained quiet, sitting in his dramatically still way, upon a chair by the window, observing the rain as it drooled down the glass.

"It seems like a foolish-" Mycroft began.

"They're not just...past business associates, Mycroft" he interrupted, "They're one of the most powerful gangs in London, and until recently, they funded nearly all of an old friend of mine's extravagant plans. Honestly I thought _you'd_ figure it out." He was growing impatient with Mycroft's slow wit.

Mycroft was silent as he thought it over. "You think they were working with Moriarty?" He asked, causing a dramatic sigh from Sherlock who flung himself out of his chair.

"No. I _know_ they were. Haven't I explained this? Keep up, Mycroft, honestly." He began to pace, "The fellow I mentioned early, the one I…_interrogated_ in Egypt, he informed me Moriarty frequented a certain underground gambling den here in London, the same you so cleanly keep track of on your computer after they supplied me for a time. I didn't think anything of it until a homeless friend of mine let me in on just how influential this group had become. After looking through the files you gave me on Moriarty, it was child's play linking the two. In fact _more_ than link, I found that they've been quite generous to him in the past. Look through the files yourself, dear brother; I'm sure even you can figure it out." When he finished his rant he smirked inwardly to himself, it had been a long time since he was able to show off.

Mycroft could barely tolerate his brother, but he opened the files anyway and scanned them over.

"But their primary location is unknown. I suspect not to you, however?"

Sherlock nodded, and turned his back to his brother, walking back over to the window.

"I kept notes on the leader's mannerism, important bits of information that I thought might prove useful if I ever needed to find them again. I had them written down in a specific book which conveniently was left alone in my old flat. Apparently Mrs. Hudson couldn't bring herself to clearing it out," he said, rolling his eyes at the strange behavior of the sentimental. He couldn't ignore, however, the pesky glow that accompanied the though of John not being able to either.

"And what book was that?" Mycroft asked absentmindedly, not looking up from his computer.

"Alice in Wonderland," Sherlock responded, peering out the window, smirking to himself at the reference. Mycroft didn't say anything back, still reading over the files.

"With my old notes and all the files you've supplied, I know exactly where they are. Taking out this group will put a halt on all Moriarty's operations still in play; no one will continue working for no pay." He said pridefully, turning to face his brother.

"And you plan on storming in there, taking out a powerful gang single-handed?" Mycroft asked incredulously. Surely Sherlock wasn't that overly confident.

"I won't be alone," Sherlock responded vaguely, a twinge of anxious hope invading his heart, "not anymore."


	7. Location

It had been a long night for John, sitting in the kitchen with his fiance sifting through hundred of pictures and files taken from the suspect's flat. He had made them dinner, which was primarily untouched on plates shoved to the side of the table. Funny thing about obsessive depression, kills the appetite. When they first started seeing each other they'd put up the pretense of eating, going out to restaurants and shoving forkfuls of unwanted food into an untasting mouth. But the closer they got they both understood each other, and subsequently were constantly forcing each other to eat.

While John had been surprised by and thankful for the new break in Trisha case, he was anxious on the effects it might be having on Mary. He was worried that it might be producing some false hope in her, the kind you don't want to admit is there, but still stirs you into desperate action. Mary had been unknowingly drifting away from the cooling case for some time, but with the suspect covered in Trisha's tattoos, she'd recommitted herself fully to the investigation. Now she was once again completely submerged in the case, diving head first into the murky waters, out of reality. Which offered the doctor plenty of distraction from his own demons, but those distractions came with subtle reminders of how much of a difference there was between Mary and his previous puzzle solving partner. Grant it, most of these were positive, like she'd let him in on what she was thinking, include him in the research and hardly insulted his ability or intelligence. But he even found himself missing those aspects as they sat together silently in their flat, searching through the pictures they had taken at the suspect's apartment.

"Mary, honestly, I think its time we call it a night," John gently urged. They had been at this for hours, her disappointment becoming more and more prominent.

"But there has to be something, right? Bullshit it's just a coincidence. But this guy is too clean. There's not a single aspect in his things or records to connect him with _any_ illegal activity."

"Besides the drugs in his car," John commented, causing Mary to smile weakly.

"Well, yeah, besides that."

More silence. More photos. More endless trains of thoughts. More pictures of books, empty cabinets, wrinkled sheets, beer stains, rumpled clothes, cluttered countertops...

"Wait a minute," she perked up, reaching for John to hand her a picture on the far side of him. He picked it up and handed it to her as she asked "what does that say on his badge?"

"Uhh... Mumford Halls," John read then looked up at her, "It said in his bio he was some kind of a night guard at this place. Why, does that mean something to you?"

She thought for a moment, then met John's eyes.

"I couldn't place it before, why the name sounded so familiar. I thought it was just somewhere I must have went to in school...but now I know why that sounds so familiar," she frowned putting down the picture.

"Care to share?" John prompted. She looked uncomfortable but rolled her eyes at being rushed and continued.

"Trish always had her weird ways about her. Sometimes she could get cold as ice. A little while back she felt like she was drifting away, and it terrified me. There was always something else on her mind, something she had to do. She'd come home late and never call back. Then she wouldn't talk to me for days, like we were just flatmates or something, nothing more. It hurt, so I figured I deserved an explanation, even if I had to get it myself. She always hated when I read her body language, saying it was cheating, that it wasn't fair. But I couldn't help but read anxiety and distance from her. I figured if she was going to leave me, I should search for some closure, yeah? I went through her things on a night when she couldn't be heard from. In the trash can I found a bunch of empty gum wrappers rolled up with a napkin. The napkin had that same logo on it as that badge." It was clear in her tremoring voice that it was hard for her to talk at such lengths about these painful memories. But John listen closely, loyal as he is. He knew Mary and Trisha had their ups and downs, and this wasn't the worst of the stories he'd heard from Mary.

"Did you ever find out what she was there?"

"Well I never asked her, we were fighting a lot back then, money was getting pretty tight. But I followed her there once. Oh don't look at me like that, you would have too. Anyway, when she went in I was a little confused, it looked just like a museum or something, nothing swanky. So I let it go. Figured she'd picked up another job. I trusted her."

John didn't think this was a sufficient enough reason to not find out what she was doing, but he wasn't about to argue about it.

"Well, I guess we have somewhere to go tomorrow then," he said, standing up with their dirty dishes in his hand, intending to pad into the kitchen.

She stood up as well, and all but rushed over to her coat.

"Or tonight," she said with a wicked smile and was already out the door.

John stood alone in the room, surprised and unsure what to do next. He stared down in confusion at the left over pasta crowding the edges of the plates. Running out in a rush was a very Sherlock thing for Mary to do, and it's been a while since he had to deal with this type of behavior. While it did hurt in its own way (as nearly everything did these days), he was beginning to feel a trickle of adrenaline swishing in his chest. Something he hadn't felt in too long to remember.

Mary's head popped back in the door.

"Are you coming or not?" She asked, with uncharacteristic impatiences. He sighed and put the dishes back down. Housekeeping would have to wait. Like it always used to.

"Yeah, hang on. Let me grab my gun," as he spoke he realized it was more with excitement than anything else. When did that start happening?

"Hurry," she barked and was out the door once more.

* * *

"What, were you expecting, it to be open?" John teased, as Mary glared at the closed and locked doors of the immense building. It was a chilly night, the clouds stunting any hope for seeing the moon.

The building was of ancient looking white stones, the kind one sees when touring the historic section of a city. It had beautiful architecture and seemed to go on forever on all sides. As it turns out, it wasn't a museum but a type of library, a hall of public records. It was also completely closed down, as most public buildings don't stay open til midnight. The grand white stairs leading up to the building shined in the light off the street, being made of some type of marble John guessed. They were currently standing in front of the main entrance, Mary debating what to do next.

"Look we should just come back in the-"

"I'm gunna go around back," Mary interrupted, turning abruptly to go down the stairs. John threw his hands up but quickly followed suit.

"Mary honestly what are you expecting to find?" he called, as he caught up to her.

"I dunno, something. We're close John, I can feel it. Trish wouldn't come here for the books. There has to be something double-sided about it." She was whispering, though without much warrant to John. They seemed to be the only ones left on the planet.

The two of them crept around the side of the building, after much walking to get to the damn corner. The side was closely lined by another building, creating a darkened ally way leading to what looked like a wire fence.

"This looks promising," Mary whispered, pulling out a flashlight. John disagreed with her word choice.

They slowly made their way down the ally, pausing only to look at the bins of rubbish. It was darker than you'd expect it to be between the two buildings, and John felt as if there was someone (or something) following close behind, breathing down his neck. The end of the walk through the ally couldn't come sooner, but as they entered back into the open air they were greeted with nothing but an old truck looking like it was parked eons. The farthest side of this area was another wall, John couldn't guess what it was attached to, but going by the creepy state of the rest of this corner, it was probably a morgue. He inwardly groaned at his word chose, unwillingly reminded of the first time he met Sherlock. Who moves in with someone who hangs out in mortuaries with riding crops?

"What the hell is that doing there?" Mary asked exasperated, clearly giving up the whispering. John was pulled out of his thoughts and walked slowly to the truck.

"Decaying, by the looks of it," he commented, peering into the window. Nothing but old leather and an empty cheap bottle.

Mary walked over to the bed of the truck, and upon seeing nothing, sighed and ran her hand through her hair.

"What are _we_ even doing here?" she asked, leaning against the truck.

John smiled and walked over to where she was, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Investigating. Hey come on, don't be like that. We found out about one side of the hall, but funny thing about buildings- there should be about three more sides we can walk around, and an inside tomorrow."

She smiled at him through the silence, appreciating his willingness to put up with her fruitless antics. She always wondered somewhere in the back of her heart if he was comparing her to his old crime fighting partner. And every time she failed or messed up she could practically see what he would be thinking in his tired eyes: _"Sherlock would have done it."_

Attempting to brush away her insecurities, she tried to let his advice sink in and rally herself into having hope for the other sides.

They both pushed off the truck and began heading down the ally way, Mary feeling embarrassed and John trying not to acknowledge the sinking disappointment in his chest. They had made it amlost half way into the ally. Mary noticed the unexpected rustling behind them a second too late. John had just enough time to turn and face the large rag punched into his face as he was violently shoved against a stone wall. Despite his panicked struggles and military combat training, what ever he was unwillingly inhaling hit his consciousness will full force, stuttering his racing mind to a hallow stop.

* * *

"Look, we already have enough on you to put you away for life. Cooperating with us could shorten your sentence, maybe even by half. Is the rest of your life really worth less than this man you're protecting?" Lestrade sat across the same desk Mary had earlier, overly exasperated and tired of dealing with the suspect. It was day three, and they could tell he was beginning to give, beginning to forget his unexplained fears.

The American glanced down at the table, studying the birds on his wrists.

"And how about the woman's whose life hangs in the balance, yeah? Is she worth less than you, and your boss? You know there are a lot of people missing her right now."

The suspect's face twitched, giving Lestrade the encouragement to push further.

"You know her name? Trisha. Trish has a fiance you know. She's a damn good woman and you-"

"I had nothing to do with her." The suspect's American accent carried enough anxiety to keep a man up for days.

Lestrade stared back at him and after a moment of silence told him, "I don't believe you, Joshua."

The man slammed his fist against the desk and shouted, "fuck off." Which prompted Lestrade to calmly lean forward, "Why don't you give up this tough guy thing, huh? It not fooling anyone and it's going to cost a woman her life!"

"Damn it you people know nothing!" This Joshua called person barked with a humorless laugh.

"Yeah? I think we've got it down pat. Tell me where I go wrong: you're part of The Funding, an illegal gambling gang. You meet a woman there, your boss takes a fancy for her. He kills her and has you to take her place to fill in his fuck fantasies." Lestrade was edging him on. Joshua stared back at the detective, trying to conceal the fear on his face.

"He ain't gunna kill Trisha!" he hissed.

"And I'm supposed to take your word for that? What's she doing then, on a holiday? Do you really not care about her at all? About what he could be doing to her, as we speak?" this causes Joshua's eyes to soften, and face to falter.

"She's being taken care of." he said, seeming to loosen his grip on his anger. Lestrade didn't answer, instead kept up an intense stare of the suspect. Who sighed and looked around nervously.

"Yous better just count her as fuckin' gone. Now look, she ain't dead and I had nothin' to do with anythin' he does with her. But the boss is a fuckin' mad genius, extra on the mad. And there ain't nothin' that will pull him away from his damn bride. And...I can't tell you more." The man looked like he was going to cry, regretting every word he was saying, both for revealing secrets as well as what those secrets were.

Lestrade didn't say anything back, instead kept a glare plastered on his face. The bile was rising in his stomach thinking about what his friend was going through. He stood up, not looking at the suspect.

"Well, I hope you enjoy prison life, Joshua," he told him calmly as stood with a turn to leave.

"Wait! Please! I talked, okay! You said you would-"

"You didn't say shit!" Lestrade roared over him with an animal like ferocity as he turn back to the man, "you let us know that some _psychopath_ has my friend's fiance. Big fuckin' help. So unless you start saying something actually useful, I am not lifting a finger for you!" The DI's anger seeped through his words and right into the terrified heart of the inked up drug dealer.

"Please. Please," his face was crumbling into a pathetic mess as he put it in his hands, "please, they'll kill me Mr. Lestrade. They'll kill me."

Lestrade opened his mouth to respond but was distracted by a single ring from his cell phone in his pocket. He shut his mouth to give Joshua one last look of disgust before turning his back and walking a few paces away from the table. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked down at the screen. A new text message from an unrecognized number. He gave it a read over, causing the strangest mix of excitement and confusion.

Behind Mumford Hall downtown.

Basement door leads to The Funding's underground hide out.

Might need back up.

SH


	8. In the Lion's Den

The dull thumping at the rear of Mary's head pulled her slowly into consciousness. A roaring tore through her ears and she tasted dried blood on her lip. Her whole body ached as if she'd been hit by a bus, and the simple task of opening her eyes seemed too much for her. She couldn't remember what had happened or where she was, but the hard, cold surface beneath her back screamed "not good".

Mary cracked her eyes open to squint up at the dusty ceiling above her, the only light source she could see was a bare bulb hanging from it. She groaned and tried to roll her aching body over but was met with a restricting tug from one of her wrists. She looked down in confusion and saw her left hand harshly zip-tied to the piping of a well-used toilet. Panic begin to slush through her tired thoughts, realizing that she probably hadn't voluntarily gotten herself into this situation. Thinking hard she began to remember going out with John, searching for something. That was about all she could piece together. She pulled violently against the hard plastic around her wrists but to no avail, she was very much stuck.

Gathering herself into the most comfortable seated position possible, she peered around the room. It was an average-sized bathroom looking as if a lazy maid had attempted to clean the faded tiles at one point, but wasn't very skilled at her trade. Her eyes continued to scan, looking for something sharp to remove herself from her bondage. She took in the door on her far right, the sink adjacent to the wall she was propped up against, and then there was a chipped bathtub to her left-

Her eyes found him and she froze.

John sat unmoving in the tub, hands zip-tied tightly to a pipe running into the wall behind him. His eyes were bruised shut, and dried blood splattered down his upper-lip, chin and shirt. She feared the worst when she couldn't tell in the dim lighting whether or not his chest was moving up and down.

"John!" She whispered hoarsely and tried to move as close as possible to him. She could barely brush the outer fuzz of a sleeve with the tips of her fingers, no matter how hard she pulled.

"John! John Watson,_ please._ For the love of God, wake up!" Her fear pulsed behind her words yet he didn't stir.

She was too afraid to call out to him, not knowing what or rather who prowled on the other side of the closed door. She looked around for something to throw at him and upon finding nothing squirmed out of her shoe and chucked it at his chest. He didn't move. She pulled off the other one and repeated the action, to get the same non-reaction out of him. His stillness heightened her anxiety but she pushed back the storm of tears threatening to free themselves. This was no time to pay mind to the whims of her inner child.

She leaned her head against the wall and tried to think of a plan of escape. There was no way of knowing what time of day it was, or where they were. She desperately wanted John to wake up and reassure her in the way he always seemed able to. Mary sat on the floor of the bathroom for what seemed like hours without hearing anything. She attempted to break loose a few more times, as well as wake the unmoving John. Each time no luck. No one came into the bathroom. After so much time she closed her eyes and unwillingly drifted into a slight doze, still attempting to plot an escape.

Hours later a loud laugh startled her into consciousness. She strained her ears but could only hear a muffled man's voice, no solid words. He seemed to be in a good enough mood, the jolly mumbles floating into her plumbed prison. No other voice accompanied his, and she couldn't tell if she was thankful or not that nature hadn't called the whole time. After a short while his voice settled down without her hearing anything useful from it and she was surrounded by silence once more.

* * *

Unwilling to admit it to himself, Sherlock Holmes was nervous. Desperately-trying-to-ignore-the-pangs-of-anxiety- stabbing through-his-chest-nervous as his made his way through the night. He wasn't anxious about facing a group of criminals, no that was nothing to worry over. He's faced much larger threats, plus physical danger has never been something that concerned him. No, this was about the text he just sent, more over what it implied. He was going to be somewhere where a handful of people from his distant past will be. Mycroft had cleared up any pesky legal issues that would arise from his return to the living, but that didn't make returning any easier. He would have to see Lestrade's face, all his emotions easier to read than a child's book. Although he couldn't say he wasn't looking forward to Anderson's face.

But Sherlock already knew what everyone's reactions would be and he wasn't in the mood to deal with them. Well, almost everyone's. There was only one person he was concerned with dealing with, and it was someone who has surprised him too many times in the past to feel comfortable with assuming his soon to be reaction. Yes, John was a push over in more ways than one, and he was obviously not taking Sherlock's death very well, but that doesn't mean he wont be angry. He wont freak out and tell him to fuck off. That thought, the thought of rejection from the only person he craved acceptance from, scared him more than any gang could. His heart, his very psyche had always been a calm lake, untouched by the flowing unpredictable currents of the rest of mankind. Allowing a new flow of water into his isolated paradise from a man he'd pushed out of his life sent a storm into the peace he once found comfort in.

Sherlock pushed those thoughts away with practiced grace as he made his way down the ally adjacent to Mumford Hall. This was it. It was show time.

He stood outside the hidden door, the one concealed behind an old broken down Buick. Honestly they could have thought of something a little more clever to hide their entrance. Anyone with half a brain would be able to see it. The other entrance, the one he'd sent Lestrade to, was through the basement door of a locked government building. Which didn't have the resources nor the patience to break into. Better to attack from multiple fronts anyway.

It was later in the evening, the sun sinking behind long gray clouds. There were broken bits of wood, old bricks, and rubbish littering up and down the walls on either side of the door. Armed with only a tiny knife tucked into the folds of his sleeve, he wrapped on the shambled door. Four sturdy thumps then one light one, exactly as he used to in a much distant life time. It was a rather obvious secret message to get in, but the leader was never the brightest of bulbs.

The door creaked open and a voice speaking in a weak and shaky facade called to him, "I'm just a poor squatter, please leave."

Ah yes the code didn't change. How trivial.

"And I'm just a lonely man looking for a friend."

With that the door swung open and a small man holding a large gun looked him up and down.

"Business hours are over." His weak voice gone, replaced with a voice too deep for his face. "If you want to place a bet you gotta wait til tomorrow."

Sherlock had to question the gruff voice the little man put on, was he trying to intimidate him? It was very tiresome, fooling the simpler minded. The man's gun was still locked, his shoes untied, and obviously had just been sleeping off a large amount of alcohol. Not exactly a formidable opponent.

"I'm an old friend of Ralph's. I'm here to see him." Sherlock explained and the littler man's face hardened, trying to cover the fear in his eyes at the name.

"How dare you use the boss's name." he growled. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Look I just got off the phone with him, would you like me to call him back, then? Tell him you were too busy nodding off to follow orders? I'll bet you have a missed message from him that you slept through," Sherlock scolded, nodding towards the man's cell sitting on the folding chair behind them.

The man's face fell, he hesitated, then turned to go check. Sherlock took this opportunity to grab a decaying 2x4 and slam it into the back of the thug's head, knocking him unconscious on the floor. Honestly, the gullibility of these lower level gang members was astounding.

He shut the door behind them, coating the darkened hall in a moth infested light from an old lamp. Sherlock dropped his beloved long black coat on the ground and removed the unconscious man's tattered parka. He also snagged his ridiculous flat brimmed cap and gun. Better to blend in.

He made his way to an elevator where a young woman stood waiting for the lift to arrive. She looked wildly out of place in a form fitting dress and too high of heals. He walked to stand next to her and put on his best scowl. He could tell she was a higher end night-escort, the kind only wealthy drug lords could afford. He couldn't believe his luck. She looked unamused to be there, but not unused to being in the gruff company of petty thugs. A man stood on the other side of her, obviously escorting her to her client. This man gave Sherlock a once over, but saw the gun in his hand and decided not to question what ever it was he was doing. There was enough men in this organization to not recognize someone.

Sherlock followed them onto the lift and watched the thug press for two floors below. As the doors shut, the other man turned and asked him what floor he wanted. When Sherlock told him the same, the other man looked confused.

"You ain't allowed on dat floor, mate. You fuckin' kiddin'? That's the boss's-"

With that information Sherlock shot a fist into the other man's windpipe, and he fell instantly to the ground. Another easy knock out. The prostitute stifled a scream and slammed against the corner.

"L-Listen, sir, are you a cop? Cause I ain't-"

"Shut up," Sherlock calmly ordered, and she shut her mouth in frozen fear as the doors slide open to what was apparently the boss's floor. This was just too easy. He stepped out and turned to the woman.

"I'd suggest not sticking around." He offered as the doors shut between them.

He turned back around to see two men a the end of a short hall guarding a door. They held the same confused look as the others had, and he looked down at the gun as he approached them. He generally wasn't one for killing - too messy- plus a shot would alert anyone in the room beyond of his less than friendly presence. But the gun was heavy enough to use as a blunt object. Once he stood before them he took no preamble and knocked one of the guards out with the butt of his weapon. The man fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The other one went to grab his gun from his belt but was too slow, and like his colleges, was easily dispatched.

Sherlock inwardly noted the ineptitude of the guards in this place, and opened the door and passed through it. A large room spread out in front of him, obviously used at one point for storage. However now it was made to look like a lavished bedroom of some sorts. An expensive looking satin-red carpet stretched out over the stained concrete floor, running under a massive four poster bed. Gold decorative curtains hung from the walls as well as an oversized oil painting of the big man himself. As Sherlock's eyes scanned the room he noted the only other doorway on the far side of the room, although its smaller frame and lack of lock lead him to believe it was just to an office or closet. The room itself only had two visible occupants; Sherlock remembered how much the leader enjoyed his well-guarded privacy. A woman laid on the bed, tied to one of the dark mahogany posts. She was naked, covered in tattoos, and unconscious . Leaning against the headboard next to her on the bed, sat a sweaty, shirtless, overweight man reading a book. He looked up at the sound of Sherlock arriving, a mixture of shock and fear growing on his face as he realized who had joined him.

"Sherlock Holmes?" He asked, a look of sheer surprise struck his features dumb.

"Evening, Ralphy," Sherlock retorted, pointing the gun at the other man as he crossed the room, "been a long time, hasn't it?"

"But...wha..." Ralph struggled for words, "I wasn't expecting you." He began to recover.

He pushed back a lock of greasy blond hair from forehead and began to stand up but stopped when Sherlock held up a hand against it.

"Oh don't bother. This will only take a second," Sherlock responded casually as he approached the bed.

"Are you...do you need any supplies? You know I can get you the best-" Ralph began, ready to bargain the way they used to. Well not totally the same as before, Sherlock never had a gun.

"I'll make this quick as to not disturb your sleeping partner," Sherlock cut him off, looking over to the woman once he was arms length away from the bed. He could tell by the cuts left around the ropes that the bondage wasn't recreational. Bruises covered her body, her muscles seems sunken and weak. The catching of her breathe escaping her bruised throat let Sherlock know there was something seriously wrong with her lungs. Possibly punctured by a broken rib. His eyes traced down to an enormous engagement ring on her finger, banded to a wedding ring.

"Your wife?" he asked, conversationally, not lifting his eyes to the other man.

Ralph shifted his wide eyes down to her then back at Sherlock. "Y-yes." After a moment of silence Sherlock looked away from her.

"How revolting," he commented quietly. With that he put his gun to the man's head, met his frantic eyes, and pulled the trigger.

Sherlock had expected the deafening bang which generally follows the firing of a weapon, even one with a silencer (as this one had). He had expected the blood and brain splatter which splashed his sharp features. He even expected a startled scream from the woman on the bed. What he hadn't expected to hear was the yelp from a different woman, coming from the shut door on the opposite side of the room.

* * *

_Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit! Was that a gun? That was definitely a gun. Fuck. Fuck! I screamed didn't I? Shitty fucking fuck. John, now would be a great time to wake up, you fucking bastard. Fuck shit damn it. Wait…those are fucking footsteps. The shooter heard me. Shit. Shit. He's coming closer. He's going to kill us._


	9. You Can't Count on Me

With cautious quickness, Sherlock made his way to the other side of the room. He quickly swung open the door and stepped into the small room gun first. He was greeted by a high pitched yelp from a frightened woman on the floor. She was in bad shape, wild hair and bruised face. She stared wide-eyed at the gun but said nothing, as if she we reading him as he read her. Between two blinks, her eyes flicked to the left and Sherlock's gaze followed suit.

Everything. Everything in his mind, in his blood, in his bones, switched off. An atomic explosion, silent as an unmarked grave, roared to life in the pit of his unfed stomach.

John is dead.

The impossible thought rocketed through the empty night sky in his head. For the first time in his whole life there was absolutely nothing to think, to say, to do. His legs refused to move as he stood in the door way, a look of pure, empty horror being carved across his elegant features.

John.

Any type of bravery, sturdiness, grace that had occupied his being fled from him, like smoke from a flame. After what felt like a life time, thoughts began slowly trickling back into his deadlined mind, each one right after the other. Painfully loud and clear and terrifying. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. He didn't come back into the land of the living to still be alone. _How?_ How was John here? As much as he craved the way John could always surprise him, this was the second time since he returned from the dead that John got a morbid jump on him. Why? _What the hell was he doing here? _Tied to a tub?

Tied. No one ties up a dead man.

A rush of air bolted into his chest, reminding him it was a requirement for living.

Sherlock took a stumbled step forward, wildly unfamiliar with the sensation of numb legs. The woman on the floor sat staring at him, so silent it was easy for Sherlock to forget she was there. He even forgot about the gang occupying the rest of the building, and about the almost certain rush of police cars, one carrying Lestrade, on their way. All that was there, all that mattered, was John.

There was nothing he could do but stay painfully focused on the unmoving form. He had thought about this moment over and over again, on nights when all he wanted to do was to shut his brain up. What would his first words be to him? What would they be doing, where would they be, and how would he_ possibly_ get John to understand? It would have to be strategic. Well thought out. Careful not to hurl his past 3 years in a frenzied word-vomit at John. But it had been far, far too long since he's seen that face- now bruised, bloodied, and still. But it was John's face. Being so close to him after so much time apart halted anything he could have planned.

Sherlock stood before the tub now, and all he had to do was kneel down to be as close as he needed to be. But he found, as the threat of John's potential death faded and he hovered over him, how absolutely terrified he was to move forward. This was the final step. This was home laid out before him. This was his acceptance of his humanity, his need for human contact. His need for John. This was putting himself up for a prospective rejection. _Oh God._ The thought of John rejecting him, of running away from a ghost in his past, leaked iron into his very core.

Looking like he's seen a ghost, Sherlock slowly lowered himself to be eye-level with the unmoving face slumped against a tiled wall. It felt as if every piece of him, down to his very last cell, called out for John. The need probed him, pushed him, screamed in his ears to reach out. To wipe the dirt off John's brow, to run his shaking hands through John's rumpled hair. But his body turned to stone, unable to move, to speak.

The next though that crossed his mind held a truth he was too disgusted to face.

He couldn't do it.

He wasn't strong enough, wasn't built for this type of interaction. No matter how much he wanted John, he couldn't have him. Before they had fallen into place together, like an accidental puzzle. This time he had to take a jump over a canyon he couldn't make. Seeing John he knew, he knew that there was no denying what he felt was love. It was the deepest, most crippling sensation he ever felt. And he was too afraid to hand over the power to destroy him. He didn't fear danger, Moriarty, or even falling, but he was afraid of John, of John's heart not responding to his own.

He stiffly rose from his squat, cold eyes still locked on John. He closed them and turned to look at the woman, who still held a strong gaze on him. It was just finally registering in his head who she was. Mary Morstan. John's fiance. Lesbian in search of her other fiance. He subtly rolled his eyes with a huff, annoyed at himself for taking so long to realize something so obvious. Of course. The woman on the bed in the other room. That was the one John and this Mary person had been looking for. They must have tracked her to here when they were caught. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding knife he'd lifted off the guard in the elevator. Stifling the burning hole in his chest, he silently he bent down and reached around the toilet to Mary's bonds. He slide the blunt side of the knife carefully against her wrist and gently tugged.

"Who are you?" She hesitantly croaked as he worked. He flashed his eyes away from blade, to meet hers.

"Why were you looking at John like that?" She asked when he didn't respond. He moved his eyes back to their hands.

"You know," he began to stand after freeing her, "there was a very confused, tattooed woman on the bed in the other room." She didn't wait for a response. With a dark look of hope flashing into her eyes, she scrambled to her feet and was out of the room before he could blink. After a few seconds he could hear the desperate sounds of broken hearts being pieced together again. She got her reunion.

He turned to look at John again.

Hating himself for being too afraid of his own, he moved to be closer to the tub. Unsure what compelled his body to move without his mind's consent, he dropped to his knees again and carefully swooped his head down to John's. He solemnly pressed his lips against John's damp temple. The connection was instant and warm and perfect. It sent an unwelcomed shock of longing through his veins. He closed his eyes and pulled away, not wanting to see John's face up close. It would do nothing but make him feel worse. H stood upright again and didn't look back down to John.

Wiping away an unexpected tear, he turned and fled. Fled from the only life he wanted, and the only life he couldn't have.

* * *

Mary sat on the back of an ambulance truck, in an amazingly tired daze, watching flashing lights and dozens of men and women in uniforms running around. She was a block or so down from the building where they'd been held. Holding an icepack to her head, she tried to convince the EMT for the 10th time that yes, she was okay, and when would she be allowed to leave?

Everything in the last hour had happened so fast she could barely understand it all. From the impossibility of getting Trisha back, to the strange man who saved them, to Lestrade not letting her go to the hospital yet, it was all too much to take. All she wanted to do was get the hell out of there and curl up next to Trisha and watch her sleep. They had taken her and John away in ambulances but Greg insisted that because she was able to walk and talk that she stay to answer questions. She was ready to gouge Lestrade's eyes out for making her wait any longer, but obviously he had an insanely busy night and looked more tired and sorry than she did. This was a huge case, and her just happening to be there, on the bed clinging to Trisha while John was tied up in the next room looked a bit suspicious. Which Lestrade would easily over look any other time, but the fact that he was under the microscope too now made him have to act a bit tighter. Apparently an anonymous tip from an untraceable number wasn't enough of an excuse for suddenly having the location of such a high profile criminal organization.

Mary's mind wondered back to the moment she saw Trisha again. Her world had stopped. Touching her, holding her again for the first time in far too long. She thought she was dreaming, that whoever had captured her had drugged her. But there Trisha was, barely conscious, crying and reaching out to her. That first embrace after years away was more desperate, more heart-scattering than anything she could have imagined. She had expected to feel relief once she felt Trish. To smile wider than possible and hold her tight until her arms ached. What she had felt were burning tears seeming to wrench themselves from the pit of her broken heart. It was as if every night she had spent alone, desperate and terrified, had flooded back into her all at once. She felt no calmness, no solace in holing Trisha. There was part of her that broke when she lost her, a part that couldn't be fixed. Her heart would heal in time, but those years apart had scorched a burn into her very being, a scar that wouldn't fully heal.

An approaching Lestrade caught her attention. He had just existed the building followed but a man trying to speak with him. Lestrade said a few brisk words to the other man then turned, crossed the police yellow line, and walked up to a very tired Mary.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, concern plastered on his face.

"Fine. Can I leave now? Please. Greg, I answered all your questions-" her plead was cut off.

"Well not all of them," he said with an exhale as he looked to his left, seeing if anyone was coming.

"What does _that_ mean?" she asked. He let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

"Look," he began warily, "this is gunna sound nuts. But I think…I think I knew the man. The guy who saved you and John. And Trisha." She remained quiet, waiting for him to continue.

"I got a text, telling me where to find you guys. Where to find this hide out. But it was from an number I didn't recognize. I ran the number through ever database we have but no name came up. The only way that can happen is if someone with a higher pay grade than Scotland Yard says so."

"So, what? The queen then, Greg? Look what does it matter who tipped you off? Let it go, he obviously didn't want to be caught. He was probably a member-"

"It was signed S.H." He said, with an awkward sort of finality. Mary quirked an eyebrow.

"Fascinating," she said dryly, "But Trisha is-"

"Mary would you listen for a second? Please. Look I'm sorry, I didn't mean to raise my voice it's just…I think the man who saved you was the same one that texted me. And your description of him, tall with dark hair. It's crazy…"he trailed off, as if now that he was actually thinking about it, there was no possible way. That it had just been a very tiring day and he was letting the lack of sleep get to him.

"S.H…you're not thinking it was Sherlock Holmes, right? The dead man?" she asked incredulously.

"I know. I know its insane. But really…who did he text with his signature? Me, John, possibly his brother? If it was some imposture how did they know how he texted? And then your description of him. Some person who looks like him and texts like him."

"Greg, I hate to break it to you but there are a lot of tall men with dark hair in the world and plenty of people sign their names like that. And they could be the same type of hacker that makes phone records untraceable. Look I've been kidnapped, chained to a damn toilet, reunited with my fiancé and then had to watch her be dragged away. So _tell_ me you did not make me stay behind to ask me if I saw a _dead man_ come save my life!" There was that firey Mary.

He sighed and looked away, his hands hanging awkwardly in his pocket. "Yeah. Yeah I guess you're right. But please. I'm sorry. I trust you enough to push on this. One last question and then you're free to go, alright?" He pleaded and she rolled her eyes.

"Fine, but you're paying for my cab fair over to the hospital," she ordered.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and swipped his finger around the screen a few times before he looked back up to her.

"Is this the guy?" He asked, turning the phone to face her. He had gotten a picture of Sherlock from a news gossip website relatively easily. She stare back at the picture.

Without saying anything she slowly reached out and took the phone from Lestrade. She looked down at it intently, studying it.

It was impossible. Truly.

She looked back up with a look of pure shock, meeting Lestrade's hopeful one.


	10. Reaching Out

"He deserves to know!" Lestrade argued back to Mary. They sat in his office closing up the case together, before she headed off to see Trisha and John at the hospital. It was later in the evening, nearing eight. The last few days have been a flurry of interviews, paperwork and late nights at the hospital with no sleep. In all that time neither Mary nor Lestrade had mentioned the possible impossible return to John.

For the time being, she and John were still moved in together. None of them knew what they'd do when Trisha and John got out of the hospital, the flat being a bit too small for all three of them. It was obvious John had to move out, but to where was the question. He could hardly afford London on an Army pension.

"Look, why upset him with false hope? It doesn't mean anything." She felt guilty for hiding this from him; after all he'd done to help her get Trisha back it was only fair. But she couldn't bear to see him hurt anymore.

"You _saw_ Sherlock! You even-"

"Yes but what good does it do John thinking his long lost love had returned if he didn't _return _to him?_ If _this Holmes character is back, where is he? Why didn't he fly into John's arms? Wouldn't it hurt John more thinking that he's not interested anymore?" Mary hated the idea, and for John's sake she almost hoped the impossible stayed that way. What good would rejection from a ghost do?

Lestrade sighed and looked down at his desk, unsure how to respond. He saw her point, but still believed it was instinctively wrong to not tell John about this. Sherlock's death had clearly damaged the man and anything Greg could do to help piece his friend back together he felt was more than necessary. John was obviously not getting better any time soon, and moreover it wasn't their place to protect him from the truth.

"I had an idea," Lestrade said after moments of silence. She nodded for him to continue.

"The way I see it, there is only one man who could know where Sherlock is, if he's anywhere other than six feet under. Mycroft Homles is Sherlock's brother, he might be able to help us." Greg hesitantly explained.

Mary perked up in her seat, "could you see him now?" she asked. Lestrade rolled his eyes, never quite used to her spontaneous attitude.

"It's almost eight!" he remarked and it was her turn to roll her eyes.

"_So_?"

"So he's a hard man to get a hold of as it is, and like most people he's probably retired for the night."

"Look I can't, I have to go to the hospital, I promised Trish. But you on the other hand, you're going to talk to this guy. Even if it means barging in on his supper. That's an order," she said standing up. Lestrade glared, remaining in his seat but didn't respond. There was no use arguing with her. And it wasn't like he was jumping up and down to go home, things being rocky with his wife once more. Plus he wanted to do this, for John. And for himself. He was the only one this mystery person texted, and he couldn't kill the twinge of hope that it was indeed Sherlock.

* * *

John lay in the stiff hospital bed alone in his room, stewing in his aggravation. If there was a way to feel any worse then he currently did, it would be to take away his alcohol, give him a constant headache, and tell him he couldn't leave this small room until his bloody colleagues said so. He was better now, honestly, so it was high time the doctors sighed him out. Sitting around feeling terrible wasn't doing anyone- especially himself- any good.

He was stuck there to run the events in his head over and over. Well at least all that Lestrade and Mary had told him, seeing as he couldn't remember much of it himself. He remembered nodding in and out on a hard surface then waking up in an ambulance with loud voices and flashing lights. He remembered seeing Trisha for the first time, strapped in on a stretcher next to him. He was overwhelmed with disorientation. What was she doing there, how did_ he_ get there, and where the hell was Mary? He didn't get any of the answers until the next morning, when Mary visited him and filled him in. She only stayed for max ten minutes, not wanting to be away from her fiance for any length of time. John didn't blame her, of course, but still couldn't help but feel a growing sense of loneliness as well. He was more than delighted for Mary to get Trisha back, but that left him alone again, something he was desperately trying not to think about. His future had went from black to grey now back to black again, and he wondered where and to what he would move onto. Maybe he should leave the country all together- too many reminders of his past here. Maybe the entire continent. Maybe he should move to New Zealand. Or Hawaii. Or Canada. Anywhere but fucking here.

He heard a soft knock at the door and looked up. Mary, with another stuffed animal, stood in the frame. He smiled at her, but tried to look disapprovingly at the stuffed bear. Honestly between Trisha and John she must have spent a fortune on these silly toys. They were a comfort and all, but what was he supposed to do with 20 stuffed animals once he was out?

"Hey," she said quietly as she walked into the small room. She handed him a tan bear in a knitted jumper.

"Thanks," he said, looking down appreciatively at him. He had to admit it was cute. He glanced back up at her; she looked as tired as he did, maybe even more so.

"How you feeling?" He asked her, trying not to guess how many nights she'd spent curled up in the chair next to Trisha's bed.

She snorted, siting down next to him, "I should be asking you that."

"Oh I'm fine. I don't know why they're insisting I stay." He grumbled, wanting to get out as soon as possible. Seeing as he worked a few floors up, he wanted to climb out of bed and escape into the numbing distraction of work.

"Hey, they said tomorrow. You can wait a day, love. You deserve it." She soothed. He rolled his eyes.

"How exactly? By getting knocked in the head and waking up being rescued? Not exactly hero status."

"We got Trisha back, took down a bloody gang, and no one was killed. That's what matters."

"Yes but how exactly did that happen? I thought the leads on the Funding went cold. And we _accidentally_ stumbled upon them. More like they stumbled upon us. really. All the sudden we won?" he asked. Mary 's heart sunk, hating having to keep the truth from him, but being an expert in body language she knew how to hide her discomfort.

"Lestrade said he got an anonymous tip," she shrugged.

It was quite then, John not feeling totally satisfied but didn't push it. It wasn't really his concern anyway, not that he cared too much how the police dealt with criminals.

"You never answered my question," he began but was interrupted but another timid knock on the door.

They both turned to see Molly Hooper's tiny frame standing in the doorway.

"Molly!" John said surprised, sitting up in his seat. Lovely, another person to see him laying like a crippled old man in a hospital gown. It had been a long time since he'd seen her. Though they worked in the same building, he hardly made trips to the mortuary. Of course seeing her brought a wave of unwanted memories. All the times he stood around in Bart's lab staring at the walls while Sherlock obsessed. Molly was almost always there, popping in for this or that. She looked at Sherlock like he was everything, and it only took his death for John to realize he was. He spent many nights trying to remember how he himself had looked at Sherlock, if it was with the same adoration, the same amazement and longing that Molly had. He hoped he had.

John crushed those memories as they leaked into his already tense heart and smiled at Molly. She grinned nervously and looked around the room, as if expecting someone to be there. She looked back at John.

"Hello Dr. Watson, I heard what happened. I wanted to stop by," she started, "If this is a bad time..?"

"No. No, Molly its fine, come in. Please. And you can call me John, by the way," he said sweetly, feeling a bit uncomfortable sitting with no trousers on as a blast from the past fidgeted next to him.

"Thanks...John," she said.

"Oh yes, Molly this is my good friend Mary. Mary, this is Molly." he said. They both smiled at each other and offered their 'how do you do's.

"Oh, fiance Mary?" Molly asked conversationally, looking to John. His face fell slightly. Neither of them had talked about the obviously broken deal.

"Uh, not so much. No, actually. Not anymore," he tried to sound causal about it, but it came out sounding as strangled as he felt.

"Oh! Oh I'm sorry." Her face reddened and she flustered for words, "I didn't know. I didn't realize. Is it...Is it because someone's...back?" she asked carefully. Mary's eyes suddenly narrowed at that. Molly wasn't aware of just how unsubtle she was being, but luckily John assumed she was referring to Trisha's return and nodded. Mary, however, picked up on different body language. Expectation, familiarity, even hope. Molly wouldn't show that for Trish.

"Yeah. Mary has Trisha back so, we uh, we're not gunna-"

"Oh, yeah! Yes. Of course, you're a lesbian." Molly nodded with a falling smile to to Mary, who raised her eyebrows, amused at Molly's blunt wording. Her brow crinkled in realization of her social faux pas.

"No! Not that that's a bad thing. No I mean-" As she squeezed her eyes shut she was cut off.

"It's fine," Mary said lightheartedly, "and yes, I am." Molly nodded, trying to play it cool.

Another silence took over the room, tenser than the earlier one.

"So...John, have you had many visitors?" Molly asked. Mary couldn't help reading her like a book.

"Just Mary, really. Lestrade stopped by once or twice. My sister hasn't answered her phone and then there's you." He tried to make it sound causal. To not sound as alone as he felt, as tired.

"Just them, huh?" her awkward laugh rang quietly disappointed.

"Well, John you look like you need rest, love," Mary took charge of yet another awkward silence as she stood, "We ought to let you be."

"No its fine," he halfheartedly offered, but the two brushed it off. There was no hiding the tiredness in his eyes. Not from them, and not from himself.

"No, you rest," Molly insisted, obviously wanting to get out of there, "get better," she offered, patting stiffly on the arm. She then turned to give Mary a smile and was off.

"Alright, I'll be back later, I promise. Feel better." Mary said. She kissed him on the check and then stalked out of the room, anxious to follow Molly.

She arrived to the lift just in time to slide in and join Molly alone.

"What floor?" Molly asked sweetly, after she pressed for the basement.

"Doesn't matter," Mary said quickly, "Who were you expecting to have visited John?" she interrogated without preamble. Molly shot her eyes to Mary's alarmed, her small mouse-like face looking as if she'd been caught in a trap. A trap set by a tall, athletic, blonde lady.

"I-I wasn't," she stuttered out.

"Look, Molly. You're a sweet girl, I can tell. But I can also tell you're lying. Please don't lie to me." Mary wasn't intimidating per-say, but she definitely didn't look the sweetheart best friend she just had only five minutes ago.

"I only went to see John," Molly said. Everything was fine until the last word. The way said said 'John' was off. She only went to see...someone else. Mary couldn't help but get excited. This was almost too easy, but she was fearful of where it would lead. It was easy enough to figure out Molly was associated to John through Sherlock. Mary practically had John's facial expressions memorized, and anything to do with Sherlock she could tell instantly. The way he had looked at her, it screamed out the pain of being reminded of his past.

"You went to see Sherlock, didn't you?" Mary spoke softly, not in accusation but in realization.

Molly gasped and looked away. "No." It was no use for her to say anything. Molly was easier to read than a child's book.

"Why were you expecting to see a dead man, Molly?" The tone of Mary's voice demanded Molly to look at her. It was hard, but she did.

"I wasn't," there was a tinge of heat in her soft voice, almost as if she was annoyed. It esd a little misplaced against her gentle features. The lift's doors slide open but Mary moved to block Molly's exist.

"Defending your friend, I get that. I really do. But, Molly, if you care for John at all you will tell me where I can find Sherlock Holmes right now. Please."

Molly looked side ways, tension squeezing her forehead. She wanted to tell Mary, she really did. For John and for Sherlock. She rubbed her newly lipsticked lips together, and rose her eyes to meet Mary's.

* * *

"Do you realize it's considered rude to call people past business hours, Detective Inspector?"

"Yes, um. Hallo Mr. Holmes. I'm really sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you'd be willing to help me out."

"I'm afraid I'm not nearly as inclined to preform circus acts for the police as my brother was."

"Ha, no. That's not what I'm asking. Please just a moment of your time,"

"...very well."

"I-uh...I have reason to believe that Sherlock has um...returned."

"..."

"Hallo?"

"My brother didn't just step out for some groceries, detective, he jumped off a roof. One doesn't simply _return _from that."

"Yes, I know. But I think he texted me. And someone I work with saw him. Look I know-"

" *sigh* I've been cleaning after my younger brother's messes for far too long. You will have to deal with whatever you think might be happening on your own. Good evening." -click-

"Mr. Holmes? …damn."


	11. Reaching Back

**9:00pm**

Sherlock...I have a confession to make.

.

**9:08pm**

Go on.

SH

.

**9:10pm**

I gave Mary Morstan your phone number...

**9:20pm**

Sherlock?

**9:31 pm**

Look I'm not going to apologize. I did it for you.

**9:42m**

You need to talk to John. You didn't see him, I did. He looked so different. So lifeless.

_WE ARE SORRY BUT THE NUMBER YOU HAVE REACHED HAS BEEN DISCONNECTED. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE. FOR MORE INFORMATION PLEASE CONTACT THE FOLLOWING NUMBER..._

* * *

Mary stumbled up the steps to her flat, her eyes half closed. She was deliriously tired, and the nurses practically forced her to go home and rest. Trisha would be fine. She had to repeat that to herself the whole ride home.

Trisha would be fine. She'll be there in the morning. She's just sleeping. Trisha will be fine.

After fumbling with her keys, she pushed the door open. A rectangle of light spread across the floor into the dark flat. Putting the keys back in her bag, she lazily shut the door with a booted foot and flicked on the lights simultaneously.

Her hand was on her gun faster than she could think as a small gasp escaped from her throat. Standing in front of the mantle, facing the pictures adorning it, was a stranger in a long dark coat. He was holding a photograph of her and John on new years last year. John had drunkenly kissed her smiling cheek and a friend of theirs caught the moment. It was a good memory for both them. Grinning brightly, caught up in the jolly of a party and influenced with alcohol enough to silence the heartache, if only for a moment.

The man placed the picture carefully back onto the mantle but didn't turn. Her gun was already out and aimed.

"I wouldn't advise shooting, Mary," he cautioned quietly. He slowly turned.

She couldn't help but stare at him. It was obviously Sherlock Holmes, that much she could tell. It was the same man she saw that night she got Trisha back. He looked more tired and far more boarded up than she'd last seen him.

"You're him," she said, slowly lowering her gun.

"Very good," he responded. She noted the forced nature in the way he raised his eyebrows.

She huffed out her surprise and put the gun away. Shuffling into the living room, she kept her gaze locked on him.

Neither one said anything, just watching each other. It was weird for both of them, analyzing someone who meant a great deal to a mutual friend of theirs. Savior meeting savior. The air in the room was alive and dancing with tension.

"Sherlock Holmes." She said, thinking on the words and what they meant. Her distaste screamed behind them. They meant someone who's hurt John. Who didn't fall into his arms when he saw him. It meant someone who ran once long ago and keeps running.

"And I clearly know who you are. Let's skip the introductions." His face barely moved as he spoke.

"You're jealous of me? Really? Like you have any right to be," she scoffed out her accusation. Sherlock slide his eyes to the side.

"I didn't say-"

"No shit. Your eyes and your hands did when you said 'you'. Look I don't care how you feel. I don't even care why you're here. I care about John. So do me a favor and stay the hell away from him. You broke his heart and you have no right to come back." She wasn't sure where this animosity was coming from. She never fully decided she didn't like Sherlock, but now that it was confirmed he was back, she hated all that it implied. That he was alive this whole time and left John to crumble. That he even came back and left John again.

"I am aware." He said quietly, turning his head. It was the truth and it was shame; her eyes narrowed.

"Go on," she hissed.

"I'm not obligated to explain myself to you. I've only come to demand you stop tracing me. You got my number from Molly, so I figured I'd save you the trouble. Yes I'm alive," he began a slight pace, locking his hands behind his back and turning away from her, "but I'd prefer to stay dead, thank you."

"Do you even care about John at all? Are you really as heartless as they say?" His fingers twitched. Squeezed. She took notice. She also noted his lack of response. He was supposed to have a response for everything.

"Ok, so you do care. Then why stay away? I saw how you looked at him. Back at the warehouse. And no one has a big plan to return unless they really want to. So what changed your mind? Was your old toy too broken to come back to play with?" Her hostility was draining, becoming more quizative.

"You've spent too many nights awake in a hospital chair, Mary. You're too tried, your deductions are off." He didn't turn to face her still.

"No, actually. They're spot on." Her anger was gone. She couldn't help but read people with a hint of amazement. When it was interesting enough to capture her attention, she always got distracted from her emotions. It's as if she's observing something on the TV. Distantly.

Hearing her change in tone, he turned to face her.

"You're afraid." she told him, walking closer, "Not 'normal people' afraid, but I can still see it. You're sweating. Hands clenched. Avoiding eye contact. Back turned. Look at your forehead! You're scared shitless. Of what? Me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We're getting off the subject," he growled. But was unable to stop her. He knew he would be able to, it wasn't hard to distract people who are lead mostly by emotions. But something inside him wanted her to read him. Trusted her intelligence and almost felt secure in letting some body language slip out. As if he wanted her to read what he didn't want to think.

She stared at him for a bit until she decided what to do. It was a long short, but worth a shot.

"John Watson is in love with you." she stated, strongly focused on Sherlock's features.

Eyebrow twitch. Lip tug.

She walked closer still. "John Watson is still in love with you, after 3 years." she said moving closer.

Shifting legs, looking away. It was making an impact. She continued.

"John loves you, Sherlock." She said with more passion, now standing face to face with him.

He looked up at the ceiling. She could see the crumbling walls. She had to push further. She put her face in his personal space and lowered her voice.

"John Watson cries still because he fell in love with a man who died. He still sees a therapist. He drinks almost every night in attempts to drown the emptiness, but it only gives him a headache in the morning. No closure. I hear him calling out in the nights for you, sometimes. On the nights that he does sleep. John Waston wants you, with every fiber of his being! John-"

"Alright!" Sherlock snapped, caught off guard by both the effects the woman's words were having on him and the ferocity in his voice. "I get it, I broke him. I hurt the only thing that's ever mattered, and now I have nothing left. I realize the damage I've done, but what business does a bomber have returning to his destruction?" His voice along with his pulse rose without his consent. He hated when things John related did that to him.

She backed away but kept her scrutiny locked on his every movement movement. They were getting sloppier. Sherlock felt her understanding it, felt her deducing further than he wanted her to, taking control of the situation. He found it tremendously irritating to be read like that.

How had she gotten under his skin, known exactly what to say? Moreover, his insides were shaking. His heart hurt more than ever hearing her say his name, throw his sin back in his face. The image of a drunken John crying meshed with the trembling voice from nights before.

_ "I never knew it, don't know how, and I found out too late. But for what it's worth, if you can hear me wherever you are, I learned since __you died that I've always loved you."_

"_That's_ interesting. You don't want to return...because you feel you don't deserve it?" She asked incredulously. He didn't respond once again.

"I don't know if anyone's ever told you this...but you don't fix something that's broken by leaving it broken. You _fix _it."

His back was frozen and head down and her heart softened seeing how upset he was. Maybe he wasn't evil, just emotionally inept.

"He's not permanently broken, you know." She offered, "he's just been switched off. You're the only one that can turn him back on."

"I can't." he whispered, still facing away.

His words weren't a confession of a misgiving, rather of personal weakness. He could, but he can't. She was beginning to understand.

"Now I get it. You're not scared of facing your mess. You know that somehow you can fix it. No, you're scared of your mess not wanting you anymore."

He didn't move.

"You're an idiot," she informed. He cocked his head slightly, so that only half his body was facing her. It was clear he was holding back tears. Ah so the robot did feel.

"I've been called a lot of things in my life," he responded, "but it's been a long time since someone called me that." He looked trapped in a memory, too tired to hold up the wall.

"You honestly believe John's not going to accept you back?" she couldn't help but scoff. It had been a very long day, and she was really too tired for this nonsense. Boys were always so stupid at these types of things.

"As if he could possibly do anything else," she said mostly to herself, as she ran her hand through her hair.

"I can't...I can't risk it," he said quietly, unsure why he was even saying it.

"_Really_?" She threw her best tilted-head glare at him, "You don't have the balls to ask a guy out, so you're just going to let him rot for the rest of his life?"

"He's better off-"

"With you, Sherlock. He was _always_ better off with you. So stop being a fucking pussy about it. You know it's rather selfish. After all the hell you caused him, you won't _take on_ a little for him."

He had nothing to say back. He had never thought of it like that, never thought he could be a cure for John. Only a curse. Getting him back was the selfish thing to do, not running away.

He had planned on coming here then jumping on the first train out of London. But now...he was reconsidering. He wasn't sure what to think and the confusion and pain it was causing was less than bearable.

"Sherlock," she said gently, feeling bad for being so harsh. She stood and walked over to him, placing a hand on his arm. He was too lost to notice. He lifted a wide gaze to her, looking like a deer caught in headlights. A deer with wildly blue eyes.

"Go to him. Stop all this pain, for both of you. There's no point in it. Be logical about this."

"There is no logic in it," he couldn't stop from tumbling from his mouth.

"The logic of the heart, dumbass. It's a bit different from the brain, but just as demanding. You can't help him dead. And he can't help you broken. Go fix your mess."

Somewhere in the back of his mind he had to applaud John for finding such a woman.

* * *

A/N: Hey guys! So this chapter is a little less edited, but I figured it's better than nothing. Stuff's gettin' busy in the icky real world so I wanted to give you something :) Enjoy! Please feel free to comment with any mistakes sho I can fix em.


	12. Ghost

"What is it, Mar?"

Mary pulled out of the daze she was staring off into. Trisha had asked her a question but of course she hadn't heard it. She hated it when she did that, especially now when every word out of Trisha's mouth was the most beautiful sound she'd ever heard. But she wouldn't help behind distracted, she was so nervous. But come on, what's done is done and now she had to forget about it and let the over grown boys deal with their own problems. She'd gone her whole life without being nervous over boys, she wasn't about to start letting them effect her now. She was holding Trisha, nothing else should matter.

"Huh?" she asked, letting her eyes wander back down to Trisha's face. It was starting to fill out again, the recession in her cheeks fading more and more each day. She was so beautiful.

They were both sitting up in the hospital bed, watching some afternoon TV, curled around each other.

"I asked what's wrong, you haven't been listening to a word I've said," Trisha laughed, reaching up to push a lock of bangs from Mary's eyes.

"I'm sorry, love. I'm worried about tonight. I did the right thing, didn't I?"

"Of course," Trisha comforted, shifting her weight so that she faced her fiance, "from what you've told me they need each other. And your deductions have never been off before, right? They'll be fine. You did an amazing thing, babe. Now stop thinking about two boys or I'm going to get jealous." She teased and watched Mary's lips curl into a smile.

Mary leaned in and kissed her softly in thanks, who returned the kiss full-heartedly. For the rest of her life, Trisha would never get over kissing Mary. Never. After the past years she's had, there was absolutely nothing better on the planet then Mary and the feel of their love on her mouth.

* * *

This is total fucking bullshit. John's grumbling to himself as he hobbles his drunken way out of a taxi, onto a random street. Why the _hell_, on his first night out of the hospital, would Mary ask him to do this? Send him to pick up a damn cat from her sisters to babysit? He didn't even fucking like cats, but apparently it was so bloody important for him to pick up the damn thing tonight, no ifs, ands, or buts. And of course she couldn't do it, God forbid she leave Trisha's bedside for 30 fucking minutes. But telling Mary 'no' to something would always be much more of an effort then actually doing what she tells you to. If her suborn head gave you an order, you did it.

He wasn't normally this impatient with Mary and had he had a clearer head he'd be happy for the distraction from returning to another empty room. She had been very specific to go straight there and he'd been sober for too long; having to deal with that gnawing pain without any numbness is enough to drive anyone mad. Killing some time and some pain, he found the closest pub and a few long hours. John hadn't really intended on getting ass-hat hammered because he coulnd't exactly show up like that to Mary's sister's, and no one in their right mind would hand over their cat to a drunk man. But logic blurs with the vision, and there he was, assuming it was perfectly find to show up quiet intoxicated. Well not quiet totally gone, but he was floppy enough.

Was this really the address? He looked up blurrily from the scribbles in his hand. It seemed a little run down to be the place; who owns a cat in a shitty apartment? That's not very fair, cats deserve better than shitty flats. He'd have to give the owner a piece of his mind. And that's exactly what he planned to do, as he stormed up the few stairs to the door and let himself in. He was too drunk to wonder why it wasn't locked.

He stood in a dimmed thin hallway covered in old carpet and dust. He froze when he heard the music floating sadly and slow from the room beyond. It was a violin. Who the fuck plays violin besides dead men? Like many other things in his pathetic life, it automatically hurt him to hear, each piercing note drifting into his core to hallow it out some more.

"Hallo!?" he shouted to the musician in the next room. The music stopped immediately, but it wasn't followed by any other noise. "Would you stop playin' that and come here please with the cat thank you!" He liked the way his voice felt tumbling out of his mouth, moving up and down in pitch.

He slummed sideways against the wall and waited, looking down at the floor. Maybe they were trying to wake up the cat, it was late. Cats are grumpy when they wake up. He should help, he was a doctor and all.

With half closed eyes he stumbled down the hallway into the next room.

"Issok, I'ma doctor," he started but stopped immediately. .

Had he been sober he would have been racked with a million questions, pierced through the heart, he would be angry and attack, he would curse and cry and God knows how desperately he would kiss. But he wasn't sober, he was quiet intoxicated and confused and everything inside his being stopped. His eyes, breath, atoms, heart, soul, legs, brain. Everything. It was as if someone had pressed pause. All that seemed to be sinking in from the absurdity of it all was that damn face with those perfect check bones and wide eyes, and that damn body as frozen as he was, staring just as amazed across the room.

"John," it breathed with a voice coated in terror, as if it saw a ghost. Ghosts shouldn't really be afraid of other ghosts, John distantly thought somewhere in the back of his mind.

But that _voice_. It broke him out of his stare to take a step forward.

An electrical silence danced over their skin as John took another step. Then another one. His thoughts were too far away, too drunk to compute. He was just moving.

He stood before the other man, who stared down at him in complete shock, running his eyes over and over him. He didn't seem to be nearly as slow motioned as John was.

John reached up a shaky hand to lightly skim it over the skin on the hallucination's face. Well that's what it had to be, anyway. It closed its eyes, shame creasing in his brow. John wanted it to smile, wanted it's inquisitive eyes to open again, see the clear blue he's gone so far without. John wanted it to talk to him, to deduce-fuck- _anything _and he'd be happy.

John figured he shouldn't indulge in this surprising hallucination, that it can't be healthy. Once you start seeing your dead flatmate around where cats are supposed to be its a pretty good sign to give up drinking and be seriously worried about your sanity. But honestly the only thing he felt was relief. The pure grief that had clenched it's gnarled hands over his heart was loosening its grip faster than any alcohol could ever encourage. With each glide of John's fingers over the soft skin, he felt his soul returning to him. Entering in through every breath he drew. He was seeing that face! That face that haunted his nightmares with glossy eyes and bloodied hair, the one he missed seeing every morning, the one he thought he would never see again. He was touching it, and his alcohol soaked nerves tingled as he felt him under his fingertips.

He couldn't help but smile very slowly, the the pure blithe of being in that powerful presence once more overwhelming him, pushing joyful tears to the brink of his eyes. It was just a ghost, but a very warm, very beautiful one. He hadn't felt, not like this, in longer than he could remember. He had assumed that part of his brain had been broken, but there it was, and it was dusting itself off. He ran a shaky thumb across those lips he'd thought about even when he didn't want to. The figure leaned into John's touch, and began moving its lips under his thumb.

"John," it spoke, so much behind that velvet voice. But that was enough for John, that deep voice washed over him fresher than any water could. He felt clean for the first time in three years. He didn't need anymore words, just his name spoken with a voice gone from this world.

Before his heavy thoughts could catch up with his desires, his lips were moving longingly slow against the figure's. His hands were desperately clinging to the neck in front of him, as if they too wanted this to be real as deeply as he did. His mouth was slowed by the pints of alcohol he'd consumed, but after a few moments of hesitation, the ghost kissed back, wrapping long arms - surprisingly strong for a hallucination- around his waist and pulling him closer. Warm hesitation broke into waves of passion crawling out of his center. John tried to be careful, tried to savor the heavy tasting and pulling, but it was hard when his already blurry mind was filled with the euphoria of tasting Sherlock.

Time stopped, and nothing mattered, because Sherlock was back, even just for a moment of pure bliss, and he was finally embracing the one person that ever truly mattered. The pain was gone, ignored, shoved aside to make room for blossoming heat. John lazily ran his tongue over the faux-Sherlock's lip who hummed in approval, seemingly as lost as he was in the embrace. Before the kiss could gain much more heat, the ghost pulled away, sliding a long hand to the base of John's neck to hold their heads close together.

They closed their eyes.

They breathed.

And finally, after so long, if felt like they were both whole once more.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this one is so short ._. but thanks for all the positive feed back, really helps motivate 3


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